Depth of Field
by lamardeuse

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: McKay/Sheppard

Warnings (highlight to view):  explicit sex


Acknowledgments:  Thanks to Kass, Crys, Cate, Tex and Sihaya for the fabulous beta assistance.  Thanks also to C for giving me the restaurant where John and Rodney go for dinner, and to the many kind folks who answered my questions about NYC.

Author’s Note: This AU owes a debt of gratitude to AUs that went before it, namely Lenore’s 101 Ways To Get Lucky (In Love), which has forever imprinted the concept of Laura Cadman as Rodney’s sassy office manager on my mind, and Casspeach’s Animal Husbandry, which receives a nod here from a passing horse.

Written for Jerakeen for the Live Long and Marry auction, November 2008. This fight is not over yet, not by a long shot.

A PDF version is also available here (c. 270 KB).












“No,” Rodney said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “No, no, and oh, did I happen to mention? No.”

Laura Cadman leaned her elbows on his desk. “Rodney, there are eight hundred and sixty two photographers all over the planet dying to shoot Harmony Esposito, and she's picked you.”

“Of course she has, but that's not the point.”

Laura raised her eyebrows.

“Do I have to spell it out? I don't work with children!” Rodney exclaimed. “My God, it's not as if I haven't told you this about fifty million times before.”

“She's won an Academy Award,” Laura said slowly, “and she has been performing on Broadway since the age of three. She's probably more mature than both of us combined.”

“She's twelve,” Rodney snapped. “I don't work with anyone under the age of eighteen, not only because most children are nightmares, but because I have to deal with the parents hovering and simpering and telling them to turn this way or smile that way, and that is my job, thank you. And so once more I say: no.”

“Rodney, for –”

“Tell her to call me back in six years.”

“Rodney –”

“End of discussion.”

“Rod –”

“Next topic,” Rodney snapped.

Laura treated him to a final glare, then, incredibly, did as he asked. “The contract for the new book is almost ready. Pitt and Jolie want a percentage, and the lawyers are arguing about the cut.”

Rodney leaned forward. “Excuse me? A cut – of my book?”

Laura sighed. “It's standard procedure for cover shots these days.”

“Then cut their shot from the book.”

Laura blinked. “Cut them?”

“I'm sorry, are you starting to go deaf? Perhaps you should make an appointment to have your hearing checked.”

Laura flapped her hands at him. “You realize the publishers will go batshit, right? This will affect sales. They were counting on a Brangelina cover.”

“Then get me new publishers if you have to,” Rodney said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen. You're my business manager, and I have always had a business manager because I hate business. I generally wish to have as little to do with it as I can.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “This I already know. It was in the speech you gave me my first day.”

“Then you should also know this: I have no patience with subjects who think they own a piece of my artistry, or, for that matter, a piece of me, simply because they own a face that people like to photograph. I am more than happy to show the door to anyone who feels that I'm working for them. And I did not work twenty years to hone my craft so that the people in front of my lens could call the shots. Cut them.”

Laura regarded him for a long moment, and then she nodded. “I gotta hand it to you, Rodney,” she said, “as annoying as you are to work with, you've got some brass ones.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Rodney said stiffly. “Now, please remove yourself from my office and call my possibly former publishers, hm?”

Laura hopped up and snapped off a smart salute before leaving. When she was gone, he allowed himself a smile. She'd been with him for a little over six months, and if she made it to a year, she'd be the longest running business manager he'd ever had. He was privately hoping she'd endure, not only because she was clearly the best so far, but because he was aware that the probability of his getting another manager as good would tend to decrease exponentially as the years wore on. The only solution was to continue to pay her an obscene amount of money and hope it would be adequate compensation for putting up with his quirks.

At any rate, he had other concerns at the moment besides staff turnover – the invitation was still sitting on his desk. Sighing, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands, a little surprised it didn't burn his fingers.

Radek Zelenka
Context
a new exhibit

Below that were the details of the gallery and the address, and on the other side was a personalized note scrawled in Radek's hand. Rodney had read it several times now, but he found his eye drawn to it again:

                Guilt has never been my specialty, but it would be a great pleasure to see
                you at my show. It has been too long since we have seen one another.

The gallery was a good one, if small, in the East Village, and the invitation promised hors d'oeuvres, and Rodney was a sucker for hors d'oeuvres. Well, unless they were Thai – there was always lime in those – maybe he shouldn't risk it –

Sighing, he rose from his chair and jammed the invitation in his pocket. “All right, all right, I'm going,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket on the way out.











The New Gallery – and incidentally, how many galleries could be called “the new gallery” before it stopped being new? – was awash in peanut satay and lime basil coconut canapés, and Rodney nearly turned on his heel and walked out right then. Unfortunately, before he could make good his escape, he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

Rodney turned, putting on the best smile he could manage on short notice. “Radek,” he said, reaching out to take the hand that was offered, “congratulations.”

“My old friend, it is very good to see you again,” Radek said, with that heartfelt Old World sincerity that always made Rodney squirm. “In truth, I did not expect you to come.”

“You're much better at guilt than you think you are.” Rodney nodded at the crowd. “Good turnout, but then I figured there would be.”

“I did not think so,” Radek said. “I have been away from New York for many years.”

Rodney snorted. “Obviously you've forgotten how much the New York art scene adores people who snub them.”

“Perhaps,” Radek said, smiling gently. “And perhaps they feel the message is worth seeing.”

Rodney wasn't going to admit that he hadn't been keeping up with the latest developments in Radek's career; he knew his last exhibition had been in Paris three years ago, and then he'd lost touch. It didn't help that their last encounter had ended in a bitter argument in which Radek had accused Rodney of sacrificing his aesthetic to the pursuit of fame and fortune. That still stung a little, especially considering it wasn't true. The rich and famous pursued him, thank you very much.

He smiled and turned to consider the photograph nearest him, and then his smile faded. The frame actually contained two photographs: the first was a fairly neutral natural light head and shoulders portrait of a young boy, about eight or nine. The second was a wider angle shot of the same boy, standing in front of a bombed-out hovel.

He only had one leg, and his left arm stopped at the elbow. The stump had not healed well.

Context, Rodney thought, feeling sick.

“That's –” Rodney swallowed. “Quite a message.”

Radek murmured, “I will leave you with them,” and patted him on the back. Rodney shuffled slowly from image to image, taking it in. The exhibit was composed solely portraits of children, from Iraq and El Salvador, from Indonesia and Afghanistan, from the Sudan and Bosnia. There were children scarred by war or industrial accidents, or children simply old beyond their years. There was a child not much older than his niece with the eyes of an old woman.

When he finally staggered away from the last image, he found Zelenka in the crowd, interrupted his conversation to say, “Thank you. I'm going to go get drunk now,” and walked out the door to shocked stares.










He was nursing whiskey number five when Zelenka slid onto the seat beside him.

Rodney blinked at him. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Because you have been drinking in this bar for almost twenty years, since we were starving artists living in that fifth floor walkup in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Don't remind me,” Rodney said, peering into the amber liquid swirling in the bottom of his glass. Ah, that was it, he recognized that feeling: he was rapidly heading for the maudlin portion of the evening.

“What was so bad about that time, hm?” Radek asked, nudging him gently with a shoulder.

“Cockroaches. Rats. No hot water on Thursdays.”

Radek chuckled. “But we were going to change the world, yes? Or at least the way the world was seen.”

Rodney took a sip of his whiskey. “You were the revolutionary, not me.”

“That is not precisely the way I remember it,” Radek said, motioning the bartender over and pointing at Rodney's glass, then holding up two fingers.

Rodney peered at his reflection in the mirror over the bar. “So I take it everyone loved the show?” he said.

Radek hesitated, then said, “I think it was well received. There were many interpretations and outpourings of sympathy and doubtless tomorrow the Times will either rave about it or lambaste it for being exploitative.”

“And was it?” Rodney asked, looking at Radek.

“What do you think?”

“Knowing you? No.”

Radek inclined his head in silent thanks. “I consulted with both the children and the parents on the images that were chosen. In some cases, the children helped with the original framing – chose their own context. All were satisfied with the results. Those few that were not do not appear in the show.”

Finished with his fifth, Rodney started on his sixth after touching his glass to Radek's. “If they helped that much, they should get a cut of the proceeds.”

“All proceeds from the sales of the prints and the book will go to UNICEF.”

“Oh,” Rodney said. “Well, then.” He raised his glass. “To you.”

Radek peered at him in such a way that Rodney felt the back of his neck prickle. “What?” he snapped.

“I should be asking you that,” Radek answered softly. “What is wrong, Rodney?”

Rodney frowned. “Nothing. Why should anything be wrong? I'm at the top of my game, and so are you.”

“Is that what this is? A game?”

Rodney pointed a slightly wavering finger at him. “Don't start that again.”

“I'm sorry,” Radek said. “It is only that you seem unhappy.”

Rodney shook his head. “Tired, maybe. If I have to shoot one more starlet who looks all of ninety five pounds and wants me to make her look sixty-five, I swear I'll have a nervous breakdown.”

“How can you feel such distance from the subjects you photograph?” Radek asked. “There is only a lens that separates you.”

“Let's not forget a bellows and a backplate, too.”

Radek raised his eyebrows. “You are still using the 8 x 10?”

Rodney's chin rose. “I switched to a Sinar 4x 5 a couple of years ago. What did you use for your latest collection?”

“An EOS 1Ds.”

Rodney goggled. “You went digital? Jesus, you used to be a purist. The integrity of the negative and all that bullshit. Now your neg is nothing more than a collection of electrical impulses.”

“Rodney, this medium we have chosen, it is a blend of technology and artistry.”

Rodney glared at him. “Yes, thank you, I took the same aesthetics class you did.”

Radek sighed. “I am sorry. I do not want to continue our old arguments.”

“Then why did you invite me?” Rodney snapped, surprised at how angry he was. Even though he wasn't such a megalomaniac as to think it was all about him, Radek's invitation nevertheless felt like a slap in the face. The gulf between the kinds of people Rodney photographed on a daily basis and the ones who stared back at him accusingly in Radek's photographs couldn't be wider, and they both knew it.

“I invited you because I wished to see you again, and hoped you would approve of my work.”

Rodney frowned, taken aback. “You want – my approval?”

“Surprising, is it not? But you were the most brilliant of us all, Rodney, and you are my oldest friend, and this is the most important thing I have ever done. Not important in the sense of self-aggrandizement, you understand, but important in a way that has nothing to do with aesthetics or false accolades.”

“You said 'were' the most brilliant.” Rodney's voice was small.

Radek opened his mouth to speak, shut it again. “Yes,” he said finally, “I did.”

“All right,” Rodney gritted, “get it over with.”

Radek shook his head. “Rodney – I am not saying your brilliance has gone. It is only – not burning as brightly as it could. I have seen some of your recent work, and it is – not as it once was.”

Rodney bristled. “Oh, so that's why I have a four month waiting list, then.”

Radek made a dismissive noise. “Come, you and I both know that means nothing. Remember when you and I used to rail against the name photographers who relied on their reputations, who never took risks, who sat in their studios locked in their own complacency – behind their antique cameras. They were very popular, too.”

“So what should I do? Turn my shoots into a circus like Liebowitz does? Travel with an entourage and a hairdresser? I have some integrity.”

“You do not have to adopt someone else's style,” Radek said, “merely – rediscover your own.”

“You sound like that guy from The Karate Kid,” Rodney grumbled.

Instead of rising to the bait, though, Radek only smiled and placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It's late. Would you like me to get you a taxi?”

“I'm not ready to leave yet,” Rodney said stubbornly.

Radek's hand slid away. “I will leave you to your – contemplation, then. Good night, old friend.”

“Good night,” Rodney managed, staring into his drink as though it might give him some kind of answer to whatever question he was asking of himself. It didn't, though, and neither did the seventh, and after that the bartender cut him off. He poured himself into a taxi with some difficulty, and half an hour later he was face-down in his bed, blissfully incapable of contemplating anything.






 



When Laura entered Rodney's office after his strangled summons via phone a couple of minutes earlier, Rodney's head was beginning to feel like an overinflated balloon. Was that the sign of an oncoming stroke?

“What can I do for you?” Laura asked, a saccharine lilt to her voice.

“She brought the dog,” Rodney gritted. “After I expressly told her not to.”

“Wait a minute,” Laura said slowly. “I know about the no kids rule, but no pets? I don't remember that one.”

“Just one pet,” Rodney growled, “hers. It's a hellhound.”

“It's a Pekingese.”

“I don't care!” Rodney roared, rolling up his sleeve and pointing to the scar on his inner forearm. “It bit me! I hate it, and it hates me, and the botoxed old bat knows it, damn her.”

“Oh, well,” Laura said, wincing, “that might be partly my fault, actually.”

Rodney felt the outward pressure on his skull increase. “Please explain,” he said, voice admirably calm.

“Mrs. Kolya called a couple of weeks ago,” Laura said, “and told me about bringing her dog. I knew you'd done portraits with dogs before, so I said it would be fine.”

Rodney glared at her. His head grew two sizes.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” she demanded.

“I'm not blaming you. I'm also not taking her picture,” he said flatly. “Tell her to get out.”

Laura gaped at him. “Rodney, I can explain things to her. I can take the dog somewhere – you'll never see it.”

“No. Tell her that was her last chance. One strike is all you get with me.”

“Kolya's a vitally important client and you know it. She pals around with three hundred of the four hundred, and the other hundred aren't worth knowing. If she starts badmouthing you to her friends –”

Seized by the sudden and completely irrational urge to flee, Rodney rose abruptly. “I'm going out.”

He crossed the room and grabbed his jacket, passing a stunned-looking Cadman. “Look, I know I'm being presumptuous here,” she said, “but – you are aware this is weird, even for you, right?”

Rodney stopped in his tracks and turned his most withering glare upon her. Squaring her shoulders, Laura met it, unflinching, and Rodney was reminded that she'd been in the Marines for a few years. She wasn't the problem, he knew that, and neither was Mrs. Kolya and her damned dog; unfortunately, that meant the problem was much harder to identify. God knew he'd tried in the three weeks since Radek's show, or at least he'd lain awake enough nights to have figured it out by now.

And just like that, it slammed into him, stealing his breath: the problem was him. He didn't know what the hell he was doing any more, or why he was doing it. Thinking of going into that studio, the place he'd always seen as a refuge, as his, filled him with unreasoning dread, and it had nothing to do with little Acastus the biter. He wanted to sleep for a week, and run as far away as he could, and he wanted to do both at once.

Needing to escape now, he ran a swift hand through his hair and looked away. “Just – all right, tell her whatever you have to. Tell her I had a death in the family, tell her I died, I don't really care at this point. I just have to get out of here.” His gaze rose to hers again, and this time he knew the glare was gone, knew that every defense he had was falling away. “Please.”

It took a couple of moments for her to find her voice. “S-sure,” she stammered, “no problem. Uh, Rodney, is there anything –”

He summoned whatever last vestiges of strength he had to reassert the mask. “Now you're being presumptuous. Just do what I ask.” And with that, he turned and stalked out.










Rodney ended up on the subway, getting off at Christopher Street to wander through the West Village, studying faces everywhere he went. He found a camera shop and spent a ridiculous amount of money on a mid-range Nikon digital SLR, a decent zoom lens and a top-of-the-line memory card, then spent the next hour sitting in a café, drinking two extra large americanos in rapid succession and skimming the manual while the battery charged. He then set off for the nearest market, where he snapped candid shots of the shoppers and various street scenes. After another hour, his battery was down to half power and he'd burned through over a hundred photos. He made a mental note to buy a backup battery as soon as possible, and an extra card.

It was the middle of the afternoon when he hopped into a cab, this time heading for midtown. He had a vague idea of strolling through Central Park in search of more subjects, and soon he was doing just that, hunting for more photo opportunities. It astonished him to realize he hadn't done this – simply gone out into the city with a camera – in over a decade.

Rodney snapped shots of cyclists racing across a bridge, of a tai chi class practicing in a shaded vale, of children poised at the highest arc of a swing, their feet stretched before them and their mouths open in giddy laughter. The digital couldn't touch the resolution and clarity of his large format, but its ability to capture motion was liberating. Used to spending hours setting up carefully posed and lighted compositions, Rodney was surprised and pleased to find that he could still frame on the fly. Not every one of his shots was a winner, but he would probably end the day with a dozen really interesting images, and that was usually as much as he got out of a day's studio session.

Wandering out onto the sunny, open fields, he was drawn to a soccer match played by a mixed-gender group of teenagers. At least he thought it was a soccer game; it was hard to tell, because they didn't seem to be following any rules Rodney recognized from his long-ago high school days. They were far enough away that he needed the maximum zoom to see any detail in their faces; he wasn't sure if any of these would turn out, but it was interesting to test the autofocus abilities at this range.

There were a couple of adults in among them, he could see now. One was a woman, petite enough to be taken for one of the younger girls. Her flawless light bronze skin seemed to radiate sunlight, and her toned body and high-cheekboned face would make any model envious. The second was a giant of a man, taller even than some of the older boys in the crowd. His long dreadlocks were tied back in a ponytail, and his facial expressions swung between fierce determination when he was in control of the ball to youthful exuberance when one of the kids on his team scored against the opposing goal. Rodney snapped a few shots, but he moved too quickly and unpredictably for a good result at this distance.

The third adult was older than both of them, but no less striking. He was tanned and compactly built, with black hair showing the first wisps of silver at the temples. Rodney tracked him through the viewfinder, snapping shot after shot as he weaved smoothly through the bigger, clumsier teenagers like a coyote through thick brush. There was an economy of motion to him that showed true grace, and Rodney couldn't have looked away if his life depended on it.

Which was probably why he didn't notice when the soccer ball, flying through the air in a high, wild arc, plummeted down and decked him like a roundhouse punch from a heavyweight champ.

Rodney fell to his knees first, and only some instinct for saving his equipment kept him from falling forward onto the camera. Instead, he toppled sideways and collapsed onto the grass. He didn't quite black out, but he decided to close his eyes for a few moments while the world wobbled like an enormous vat of Jell-o.

There was the sound of shouts and rapidly approaching footsteps; Rodney cracked an eye open, then decided against it. Darkness was his friend, at least for the moment.

“Holy shit, Rashid, you killed him!”

“Everybody calm down.” That voice was deep and commanding; even in his addled state Rodney was willing to bet it belonged to Huge Dreadlocked Guy.

Rodney was gathering himself for another eye-opening experiment when he sensed someone kneeling down in front of him, then felt gentle fingertips pressing against his neck. “I'm still alive,” he wanted to say, but it came out more as an inarticulate mumble.

“Definitely not dead,” another voice said, probably the one attached to the fingers.

“Here, John,” a woman's voice said, “try this.” A few seconds later, he could feel a cool weight on his forehead and a soft touch on his cheek that was almost a caress. He leaned into it, smiling; this wasn't so bad. Maybe he could just stay –

And then a pair of fingers pried his left eyelid open. Rodney's eye watered against the harsh light, and a sharpened spike of pain drove straight through to his brain. “Wha' the fugg,” Rodney slurred, twisting his head out of the strange grip.

“Hey, hold on, shhh,” the second voice said, soothingly, “I'm just trying to check for signs of a concussion.”

“I don' have a cn'cshun,” Rodney managed, trying to sit up; this attempt was aborted when he found he couldn't remember how to make his arms work. Luckily, the second voice – John, he supposed – seemed to figure out what Rodney was trying to do, because he got behind him and hauled him to a sitting position.

“Whoa,” Rodney said, blinking and dizzy. He flung out a hand, and it was seized in a firm grip.

“I got you,” John said, voice low in his ear, his chest solid and warm against Rodney's back, steadying him. “Just relax for a sec.”

“Okay,” Rodney said weakly, taking in the faces surrounding him. The kids were standing back at a distance, wary and wide-eyed, and the tall guy was watching him, arms folded, gaze never wavering. The young woman he'd noticed before knelt down and smiled at him. She was utterly gorgeous, with a steady, intelligent gaze that made it impossible to look away; Rodney would love to get her in his studio and take about a thousand shots of her.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Rodney McKay. Would you like to hold up some fingers or ask me who the President is?”

The woman smiled more widely. “No. I think that is quite sufficient, thank you.”

“Are his pupils the same size?” one of the kids asked. He looked particularly anxious; Rodney wondered if this was the Rashid who'd beaned him in the first place.

The woman peered at Rodney closely, staring into his eyes. “I don't believe there was serious damage. He should be fine in a little while.”

“Are you saying that just to avoid the multimillion dollar law suit, or do you really have medical knowledge?” Rodney asked.

“No, and some,” the woman said, tilting her head. “Do you honestly hope to sue over this?”

Rodney shifted experimentally, pleased when the ground beneath him didn't shift with him. “I doubt it,” he answered. “Unless I develop a brain hemorrhage and die, in which case, you bet.”

“Hey, there’ll be no hemorrhaging,” John said. Rodney could feel warm breath puff against his ear; it was somewhat distracting.

“We should take him to the hospital,” possibly-Rashid said. “Don’t you think we should take him to the hospital?”

Rodney sighed. Seeing the terror in the poor kid’s eyes, he felt a little foolish playing up his injury. “I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’ll be fine.” Turning his head carefully, he said to John, “Could you give me a hand?”

“Sure,” John said, and with a grunt, he helped Rodney to his feet. Once Rodney was standing, he found he did still feel a little dizzy; luckily, John wasn’t letting go. He came around to face Rodney, hands holding firm to his biceps the whole time, and ducked his head slightly to look into his eyes. Up close, he was even more stunning than he’d been at the other end of a 300 mm zoom. His green eyes were shot through with extraordinary splinters of brown and gold, his mouth was an invitation to carnal fantasy, and his nose was just big enough to save him from overwhelming prettiness.

“You got somebody waiting for you at home?” John asked.

Rodney blinked at the question. “That’s rather personal, don’t you think?”

One side of John’s luscious mouth quirked upward. “I just want to make sure there’ll be someone keeping an eye on you for the next few hours.”

“Oh,” Rodney said. Quickly, he tried to think of someone he could call who would drop everything to come and sit with him for the rest of the day, but no one came to mind. He supposed he could ask Laura and pay her double overtime, but that was just too pathetic. “No.”

“Well then, listen, I think maybe you should hang with us for a while, okay? We were headed back uptown anyway to get some dinner.”

Rodney stared at him. “Um. No, really, I’m sure I’ll be fine, thank you.”

John’s fingers flexed on Rodney’s arms, and even through the light jacket he wore, he swore he could feel their warmth. “C’mon,” John murmured, leaning in a little closer, and suddenly he was all Rodney could see. John was the only other person in Central Park, the only other person in New York, in the whole damned world. What the hell was happening to him? “My treat.”

Rodney clamped his mouth shut to keep the words from coming out, but somehow they broke free. “Okay, yes, thank you.”

John broke into a wide, guileless grin, and Rodney’s heart did something ridiculous and impossible in his chest. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He slung an arm around Rodney’s shoulders as though Rodney was a long-lost friend, and together they started to walk, trailing behind the chattering knot of teenagers.










And so an hour later, after his first subway ride since he’d been able to afford taxis, Rodney was sitting in an IHOP at 135th and 7th, digging into a stack of pancakes approximately the volume of his head. The pancakes were covered in some unidentifiable berry substance (absolutely no citrus, but other than that he had no idea of the ingredients) and about half a liter of syrup, and it was pure heaven. It was also an invitation to arterial sclerosis, but he really didn't give a good goddamn.

John sat across the table from him – they'd picked a smaller one, and Rodney couldn't help but think he'd handpicked some of the quieter teenagers, in deference to Rodney's head. They included the erstwhile Rashid and a couple of older girls. Over at the other tables, the conversation was more animated, with the occasional bout of youthful laughter.

“So is this some kind of school group?” Rodney asked between bites.

John shook his head. “We're with the Atlantis Project. It's a community-based organization.”

“What do you do besides play atrocious soccer?”

John laughed, an odd braying sound that should have made him less attractive, but didn't. “Hey, cut us some slack. That was our first time, and Ronon and I haven't played in years.”

“You know how to play?” Rashid asked Rodney.

“I went to private school in Canada,” Rodney sniffed. “It's practically a prerequisite for graduation.”

One of the girls made a face. “Canada? Thought y'all lived in igloos. How you gonna play soccer?”

“We spray-paint the ball yellow so we can see it,” Rodney deadpanned, and John brayed again. “Seriously, how can you be that ignorant about a country that borders this state? Haven't you ever been to Canada?”

“I ain't never been out of New York until last year,” the girl – Jakeela, yes that was her name – said. “And then I went someplace warm, not cold.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Canada's as warm in the summertime as New York is. You should all go up to Montreal for the Jazz festival, or to see the feux d'artifice.”

“The what?” Rashid asked.

“Fireworks,” John said. Rodney looked at him, surprised, and John added, “They have great fireworks displays up there, from countries all over the world. It's really cool.”

“Let's go next summer,” Rashid said eagerly.

John's smile dimmed a little. “Maybe.”

“We could fundraise.” This from the other girl, who had remained silent until now. “Christmas is comin' up.”

John nodded. “Okay. Why don't you set up a meeting next week, and we'll bounce around some ideas?” The girl brightened, obviously proud at being handed the responsibility, and Rodney found himself smiling along with her. Belatedly, he remembered his pancakes, and dug into them before they could cool completely.










The sun was setting when they finished their meals; John paid for everyone's, including Rodney's, despite his protests (“A promise is a promise,” John said), and they gradually scattered. “Most of the kids live within three or four blocks of here,” John explained, “and Teyla and Ronon will drop the rest home in the van we keep back at the Project.”

“Where is the Project?” Rodney asked.

John nodded down Seventh. “About two blocks that way. We're pretty centrally located.”

Teyla walked up to them and laid a hand on John's shoulder. “Good night, John,” she said, then inclined her head in Rodney's direction. “Rodney, it was very good to meet you. You are feeling better, I trust?”

“Much better, thanks,” Rodney said. “And it was nice to meet you, too.”

She smiled, and her other hand reached up to squeeze Rodney's shoulder briefly before letting go of them both. Rodney was shocked at how the small gesture had made him feel strangely connected to them, if only for a moment.

“See you around, McKay,” Ronon rumbled, waving at him as he escorted a couple of kids past them. Rodney opened his mouth to say not all that likely, I expect, then closed it again. He had no idea what had stopped him.

Once all the goodbyes were said, Rodney was left standing with John in the middle of a Harlem street, wondering what the hell to do next. His head was still a little muddy, but it certainly wasn't bad enough to warrant further observation; there was no reason for him to impose on John any longer. He opened his mouth to say as much, only to have Sheppard beat him to it.

“I, uh,” John said, raising his chin to indicate a vague northeasterly direction, “I live in the Bronx, just over the river. You want to – um.”

Rodney's eyes widened. “Oh, really, I think I'm going to survive. You don't have to keep babysitting me.”

John frowned. “I wasn't – look, I don't know if you should –”

“I'm fine, honestly. I'll just call a taxi –” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, then remembered he'd stuck it in his new camera bag. He swung it around and fumbled with the clasp.

“Good luck getting one here inside of an hour,” John said. “This isn’t midtown.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Rodney huffed.

John took a step closer. “Yeah,” he murmured, and Rodney noticed this voice was different than the one he'd used around the kids all afternoon: this one was breathier, lower, a nighttime voice. “Come home with me.”

Rodney tried to blink away the sudden, blinding haze of lust, to no avail. “I – I'm fine,” he managed finally.

“Maybe you are and maybe you aren't,” John persisted. “Why take the chance?”

Rodney's chin lifted. “I've been taking care of myself for some time without any help from anyone, thank you,” he shot back.

John gazed into his eyes as though searching for all of Rodney's secrets, and Rodney fought the urge to look away. “Yeah, you have, haven't you?” John murmured, and there was a sadness there that spoke of sympathy, of understanding, and dammit, Rodney didn't want to be pried open and understood so easily by a complete stranger. It didn't make any sense.

Mercifully, John drew back, breaking the eye contact. “Okay, then,” he said, gaze now focused on a point past Rodney's shoulder, “if you won't do it for yourself, do it for me.”

“Why?” Rodney asked, and John's eyes moved back to him, tilt of eyebrows showing his hurt. Rodney shook his head hurriedly. “No, no, I mean – why do you care?”

“Because, as Teyla likes to tell me sixteen times a day, I'm a mother hen,” John said. “Because I don't like the thought of going home to my empty apartment. And because,” he husked, taking another step, bringing him right into Rodney's space, “I would've been thinking about you tonight even if you didn't have a head injury.”

“Oh,” Rodney said faintly, “well, that's –”

John cupped Rodney's cheek in the palm of his hand and brushed his thumb over his mouth, silencing him, then let him go. “No pressure, okay? Just – please?”

Rodney hesitated, heart skittering in his chest. There were a hundred reasons to say no, and only one to say yes, but that reason – John, John, John – was thrumming through his blood, making it completely impossible to consider any opposing arguments. He had built a career on careful planning, of always valuing consideration and technical excellence over emotion and impulse, but the last ten hours had been nothing but emotion and impulse, careening from one hastily composed moment to the next, flying by the seat of his pants. He felt like a pampered cat that had inexplicably fled his sirloin and diamond collar existence to pad unseen through alleyways. It was terrifying, maddening, exhilarating, and at the very least it would be the perfect end to the day to go home with this collector of strays and damn the consequences.

“All right,” Rodney said finally, “yes. Let's go, before I change my mind.”

John stared at him, surprised; he clearly hadn't been expecting Rodney to say yes. Rodney opened his mouth to say God knew what, but before he could speak, John's fingers closed around his wrist and tugged him forward, and they were in motion again.










John's apartment was small but cozy, in an older building with wooden floors and wide, painted moldings around the doors and windows. His decorating scheme was best described as early Salvation Army mixed with Ikea, but the furniture was sturdy and functional. There were various photos of kids on one of the living room walls, some of whom Rodney recognized from this afternoon, and a Johnny Cash poster over the tiny melamine kitchen table. Rodney couldn’t help but notice that the table was barely big enough for one person, let alone two.

John himself seemed different once they were inside, more tentative, unsure. He offered Rodney a beer, which he accepted, and a seat on his decadently comfortable couch. As John excused himself to go to the washroom, Rodney subsumed into the pillows and took out his camera to review some of his shots.

He was in the midst of deleting some of the less successful attempts when he felt the cushion dip beside him. “Hobby?”

“Profession,” Rodney answered. “Though this is my first time using a digital camera.”

“Really?” John leaned closer, and Rodney could feel his warmth against his side. “That guy looks familiar.”

Rodney looked down to see that his last deletion had brought up his first shot of Ronon. “Oh, uh – I did take a few of you...your group.”

“Let's see 'em,” John murmured. Feeling his face heat, Rodney obeyed, flipping back to the first shots of Teyla.

“Wow,” John said after a few frames. “You really are a professional.”

“Well, I can usually do much better,” Rodney said. John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and he reddened even further. “Okay, I know that sounds conceited.”

“I was thinking confident,” John demurred politely. Rodney flipped ahead to the shots of John, and John pressed closer. “You sure made me look good.”

Rodney snorted. “Like that's hard.” His eyes widened as he realized what he'd just said. “I, um. That is –”

John nudged him with his shoulder. “You think I'm good-looking, huh?”

“Please, you're good-looking and you know it.”

“Not what I asked you,” John husked.

Rodney turned to John slowly, then met his gaze. The look in John's eyes, hopeful yet still uncertain, was too much for Rodney's fraying will power, and before he could think better of it, he leaned forward and kissed John softly on the lips.

“Does that answer your question?” Rodney murmured when they parted.

John slid a hand up Rodney's chest to cup his jaw. “What question?” he asked, leaning in and brushing their mouths together, then pressing more insistently. Groaning, Rodney tilted his head and gave back as well as he could. He'd always considered himself to be a fairly good kisser, but John was obviously a master, because after a couple of minutes Rodney was more turned on from kissing than he'd been from some blowjobs.

Or maybe it had less to do with technical expertise and more to do with the subject itself, because John was intoxicating, so much so that Rodney completely forgot there was an expensive camera in his lap. It was only when he shifted toward John that he felt its weight, and pulled away abruptly, grabbing for it before it could fall to the floor.

John blinked at him, mouth still slightly open and lips pink and damp, his expression confused, as though he wasn't sure why the kissing had stopped. Hastily, Rodney stashed the camera in his bag, then turned back to John, his hands going to John's waist and molding to his frightfully skinny hips.

Unfortunately, the pause had given John a chance to think, which was clearly a bad idea. “Wait a minute,” he murmured, when Rodney was only a hairsbreadth away. Rodney pulled back again, indignant, and raised his eyebrows.

“I said no pressure,” John explained. “I shouldn't be –”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “As I recall, I kissed you first, and it's not like I'm your patient – or one of your charming urchins.”

“Urchins?” John asked, mouth curving.

“Also?” Rodney said, ignoring the interruption. “I'm not feeling the least bit pressured.” To prove it, he took John's hand and placed it firmly on the front of his pants. “If I were feeling pressured, I don't think that'd be happening.”

John closed his eyes and moaned, fingers exploring the ridge of Rodney's erection, and Rodney hauled him in and kissed him again, tongue pushing into John's welcoming mouth. Rodney's hands slid up under John's sweater, finding warm, silky hair and soft skin, and oh, what did we have here? Nipples. Rodney flicked the taut nubs with his fingernails, and John gasped rather gratifyingly into his mouth. When Rodney chuckled, John's gasp turned into a low growl, and okay, that was hot, very hot, especially when John broke the kiss and bent his head to so that he could focus his full attention on getting Rodney out of his pants. Rodney looked down and watched John fumble with the button and zipper, picked up the fine tremor wrought by want and need, and sucked in a breath.

This was wrong, all wrong.

While Rodney did have sex on a semi-regular basis, it was usually of the no-strings-attached variety, with mutual orgasms and no long-term commitments. This encounter might have all the hallmarks of that sort of liaison, but even Rodney could tell that it was nothing of the sort. Rodney was feeling too fragile, and John was too – well, too real, for want of a better word – to make sex between them anything but messy and complicated. Therefore, the best thing for everyone concerned would be for Rodney to put a stop to this now, before it turned into something they'd both regret.

Rodney reached down, intending to still John's hands and finish this.

Instead, his traitorous fingers grabbed the hem of John's sweater and tugged it up, over his head. John interrupted his ministrations to lift his arms and throw the sweater on the floor, and then he was standing and extending his hand to Rodney.

“C'mon,” John murmured, and this time Rodney didn't hesitate; he clasped John's hand firmly and let John haul him to his feet, let his mouth find John's by instinct, let his own hands unbutton his shirt and discard it. John smiled when Rodney turned back to him, and bent his head to lick and suck at a nipple, causing Rodney to clutch at his head in a somewhat desperate way.

Luckily, it was only a short stagger to John's bedroom, where they made short work of the rest of their clothes. John sat on the bed and tugged Rodney closer with firm hands on his hips. “Oh, now, I –” Rodney began, but John ignored him, nuzzling Rodney's hip before taking Rodney’s cock in his hand and closing his lips around the head.

“Fuck,” Rodney breathed, because it seemed appropriate, and because his knees were already wobbling. “No, okay, as amazing as that is, I'm going to be on the floor in another minute.”

John pulled away and smiled up at him. “Wouldn't want that.” He slid over on the mattress, making room for Rodney, who eagerly joined him.

Grinning, John wrapped an arm around Rodney's back and pressed their bodies together. “Better?”

Rodney thrust experimentally against John's hip. “Getting there.” John chuckled and kissed him again, then reached between them, lining up their cocks. “Oh, that helps, that definitely helps,” Rodney babbled.

“Thought you might like it,” John said smugly, and Rodney bit him lightly on the chin before kissing him again. John squeezed Rodney's ass and started rocking against him. Rodney threw a leg over John's and rolled them until he was straddling John's body. John ran his hands up and down Rodney's sides, making him shiver.

“You've got some good ideas too,” John murmured, drawing him down with nothing more than a gentle caress to his cheek. Rodney braced himself over John with one hand as he took hold of his cock with the other, and John bucked up into his touch, helplessly. “Really good.”

Rodney kissed him, hard, and they started to move together, John urging Rodney on with a broken, breathless litany, that's it, you, fuck, Rodney I, oh, knew you'd be, we'd be, and then he was coming, shattering under Rodney, and it was all Rodney could do to hold on.










Rodney awoke with a start when his pants, which were currently lying in a heap on the floor, began ringing. With a muttered curse, he fumbled around in the darkness until he located it, then flipped it on without bothering to check the call display. “Yes, what?” he whispered.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Oh, nothing. Just checking to see if you were still alive,” Laura drawled.
“What time is it?”

“It's six-thirty. I figured I'd better try to reach you to see if you were planning to show up today; if not, I'll start calling clients as soon as I get in.”

Rodney rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “Yes, you'd probably better do that. If you don't mind,” he added.

He could practically hear her shrug on the other end of the line. “It's no problem. I'll tell them the same thing I told them yesterday – you had a mild case of food poisoning.”

Rodney's eyes flew open. “You told them what?”

“I figured I wanted a short-term, non-contagious illness, since you're going to be at Elizabeth's party Saturday.”

Rodney closed his eyes again. “Elizabeth's party. Yes.” Shit, he'd forgotten all about that. Elizabeth Weir was New York's current diplomatic liaison for the old money crowd and the cultural elite. You refused an invitation to one of her parties at the peril of being frozen out of both; Rodney might be in the midst of a bit of a creative crisis, but he wasn't so far gone that he'd deliberately commit career suicide.

“Please tell me you're still going,” Laura said. “Please tell me you haven't completely lost your mind.”

“I'll go, I'll go, calm down.” He paused, glancing over at John's sleeping form. “Look, I have to hang up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“If you must know, I’m – I’m not alone,” Rodney huffed.

“Huh,” Laura said. “I figured you were whispering because you had a hangover. I never would have guessed you actually got lucky.”

“I'm hanging up now,” Rodney announced. “And Laura – thank you.”

“You're welcome. This one's still gonna cost you, McKay,” Laura said cheerfully, and hung up.

Rodney closed the phone carefully, then turned it off before laying it on the nightstand. Turning back to John, he nearly leapt out of the bed when he saw John's eyes open and studying him.

“Sorry,” Rodney murmured. “That was my business manager.”

John levered himself up on an elbow and peered at the alarm clock. “You've got dedicated staff.”

“Well, she was checking to see if I was coming in to the studio later. You see, I, um, kind of walked out yesterday morning.”

“Playing hooky, huh?” John's tone was light, but his gaze was steady, calm, with that depth of understanding that still scared the shit out of Rodney.

“Something like that.”

John trailed tentative fingertips along Rodney's forearm. “What did you tell her about today?”

Rodney took a deep breath. “I said I needed another day.”

John ducked his head, but Rodney could still see the smile curving his lips. “Oh. Good. I mean, good for you.”

Rodney kissed him. There was nothing else he could do.

“Sorry about last night,” John said when they parted.

“What on earth are you sorry for?” Rodney asked, astonished.

John made an awkward hand gesture. “You know – for being so quick out of the gate.”

Rodney's eyes widened. “Oh. No, that was actually – well, flattering?”

John smiled again. “I know it doesn't seem like it, but I don't usually pick up guys and fuck them on the first date.”

Rodney chuckled. “And I usually can't be had for a stack of pancakes.”

John caressed the ridge of Rodney's shoulder. “Caviar and lobster?”

“At the very least.”

“How about tonight?” John asked. “My treat.”

“You already treated last night.”

“Okay, your treat.”

“Confident, aren't you?” Rodney said, fingers tangling in John's chest hair.

“Don't worry, I'll settle for the lobster. I don't like caviar.” John ducked his head again. “I have to go in to the Project for nine, but we've got about an hour to – uh –”

“Get some more sleep?” Rodney suggested. John looked up at him from under his lashes, and Rodney couldn't keep from chuckling. “You have a better idea?”

The next thing Rodney knew, he was flat on his back with John atop him, pinning him to the mattress. “I'm full of good ideas,” he promised darkly, kissing a path down Rodney's chest to his belly, then lower.

“Yes, yes you – oh my God – yes, you are,” Rodney agreed, hands clutching fistfuls of sheet to keep himself from floating away.










Rodney had no good explanation for why he was sitting in one of the rooms of the Atlantis Project at ten in the morning on a Wednesday, explaining the principles of photography to about a dozen teenagers and young adults. The only one he could come up with involved John Sheppard's truly inspired fellatio technique having addled his brain to the extent that he would have agreed to just about anything. 

The Atlantis Project, Rodney quickly learned when John took him on the grand tour in the morning, was actually several projects. There was a health clinic offering contraception, counseling and other basic public health services staffed by volunteers into the early evenings, a tutoring facility for students getting their GEDs through correspondence courses – Rodney's acolytes and the soccer players from last night were some of these – and a community service organization, empowering young people in the neighborhood to start projects of their own, everything from neighborhood gardens to small businesses. John and Ronon worked in the tutoring arm of the project, while Teyla led the community-building initiatives. Rodney met one of the counselors, Kate Heightmeyer, and the head of the health wing, a man simply introduced to Rodney as T. E. He was almost as tall as Ronon but more heavily built, with a quiet, professional demeanor that spoke of true strength of character.

“T.E. won't toot his own horn, but he started this whole thing,” John told Rodney after they left his office. “The project started out as a public health clinic for Harlem youth, and over the last few years it's grown to what you see today. He's always been a rebel – tell him he can't do something and he goes ahead and does it.”

“How long have you been here?”

John hesitated for a moment. “Almost four years. I mainly tutor math and science, while Ronon covers the English and humanities.”

“You're a teacher, then.”

“I am now.” Rodney glanced at his features, schooled to bland affability, and felt a cold chill. Okay, then, he thought, skip the dinner conversation about past history.

John dragged him off to the tutoring centre, where he introduced Rodney to some of the GED students as 'a professional photographer'. The students began peppering him with questions – How did you get to be a photographer? Do you know my cousin who works at the Sears portrait studio? Did you ever take pictures of Beyoncé? – and the next thing he knew he was conducting an introductory workshop for kids who wouldn't know an f-stop from a bus stop. He shot John an 'I hate you' glare as he ran off to catch up on some paperwork, but an hour later, when John returned, Rodney was surprised to realize he was loath to give them up.  They'd run down the last of his battery practicing their framing techniques and studying the effects of focal length and exposure bracketing, and he didn't mind at all. He was exhausted, but he'd spent a whole hour working with children and had actually enjoyed it.

John grinned at him as he asked the kids to get out their books, then saw him to the door. “How about the oyster bar in Grand Central Station?” Rodney nodded. Closing the door behind them, he leaned in and murmured, “It’s kind of pricey, so we'll go Dutch.”

“Don't be silly,” Rodney returned, unable to resist placing a hand on John's chest. “You bought me pancakes, I'm buying you lobster.”

John surprised Rodney with a quick, hard kiss. “We can argue about it later. You want to meet there at five thirty? There'll probably be a wait, and I have plans for you tonight.”

The promise in John's eyes made Rodney's stomach flip. “Plans, hm?” he managed around a dry throat.

John nipped Rodney's lower lip. “Yeah. Plans. Now get out of here before you make me want to play hooky myself.”

Grinning in a doubtlessly foolish manner, Rodney turned and headed out, waving to Teyla on his way.










“So,” John said, licking the trace of beer foam from his upper lip, “when you said you were a pro, you weren't kidding.” At Rodney's raised eyebrows, he added, “You've been Googled.”

Rodney took a sip of his martini. “I'm flattered.”

“The kids were still talking about you after you left, so we checked out your website. I recognized some of the shots.”

“You probably saw them in a magazine.”

“Probably,” John agreed. “Also, didn't you do a show in SoHo last year?”

“I did,” Rodney said, surprised. “You went to my show?”

John leaned back in his chair, smirking as he spread his hands. “You've already got proof I can find my way to midtown.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Rodney protested, “I just – I –”

“What?”

Rodney clamped his lips shut. “Never mind. It'll make you conceited.”

John leaned forward. “C'mon, Rodney. Tell me,” he whined.

“All right. I thought I would have noticed you if you'd been there.”

John looked genuinely surprised. “Oh,” he said.

“Yes, oh. Are you happy now?”

John grinned. “Pretty much, yeah,” he said, managing to actually appear bashful. Rodney had never found bashful attractive before, but obviously his standards were rapidly changing. Luckily, before he could make a complete fool of himself, their meals arrived, and Rodney was able to turn his attention to the Olympic sport that was eating lobster.

John had ordered the lobster too, and when Rodney glanced over at him, he saw John wielding the shell cracking tool (what the hell was that thing called, anyway?) with practiced efficiency. As Rodney watched, he split one of the claws open, dipped the meat in the melted butter and slurped it down, chuckling when a couple of stray drops escaped and landed on his chin. “I forgot how messy this was,” John said. “You're gonna have to hose me down by the time this is over.”
And then he stuck his tongue out and licked the butter right off his chin.

Rodney already had first hand experience of John's rather talented tongue, but until now he hadn't realized it was prehensile and three feet long. Unfortunately, this was a rather ill-timed discovery, because he was now ridiculously aroused in a very public place, and walking around with a boner was the kind of thing that usually got you arrested in Grand Central.

“Rodney? You okay?” John asked.

Rodney blinked.

“They didn't put lemon anywhere, did they? You said you were allergic.”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“Then what's the matter?”

“You, um.” Rodney waved a hand. “Could I make a request?”

“Sure?” John said dubiously.

“Could you not – lick yourself in public? It's very distracting.”

John stared at him for a moment, then started laughing. “For you,” he said, mischief in his eyes, “anything.”

Rodney forced his gaze back to his own plate. “Not helping.”










Rodney was very proud of the fact that he managed to make it through the rest of the meal without slipping into a lust-induced coma, and after dinner they wandered slowly up Fifth Avenue, their shoulders bumping occasionally. They passed Rockefeller Center and the MoMA, brightly-lit beacons in the gathering dark, and wove their sedate way around the shoppers bustling from store to store. The sun had completely gone by the time they reached Central Park, and Rodney was biting his tongue to keep from allowing his raging curiosity to manifest itself. He wasn't going to give John the satisfaction.

For his part, John seemed perfectly content to let Rodney stew, the bastard, and only when he sauntered past the gates, whistling a jaunty tune, did Rodney finally blow his cool. “Oh, for God's sake, what is it? Where are we going? Are you really an incredibly attractive serial killer who plans to dump my lifeless body in the bushes? Do you secretly live underneath New York with Ron Perlman? What?”

“Not telling you, not telling you, nope, and nope,” John said amicably, holding out his hand. “C'mon, it's not much further.”

Rodney clamped his lips shut around the retort, and when John waggled his fingers, he sighed and took John's hand. He'd never been much for public displays of affection, but since there weren't many people in this part of the park at this time on a Wednesday night, he reasoned it wasn't all that public. John's fingers wrapped around his snugly, and Rodney felt warmth spread from the tips of his own fingers through blood and bone, countering the first hint of an autumn chill.

Rodney heard a loud snort, and looked ahead to see one of those hokey horse-drawn carriages that gouged idiot tourists for a half-assed tour behind a smelly, incontinent animal. John grinned when the driver spotted him and yelled his name. He raised his free hand and waved, then tugged Rodney forward.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Rodney said.

“C'mon,” John said, still grinning.

The driver, a young African-American woman, leapt down from her carriage and greeted John with one of those complicated handshakes, which he returned with ease. He turned to Rodney and said, “Rodney McKay, this is Lavonia Hawkins, owner of Horse Before the Cart.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the woman said, offering him a wide smile and a handshake he could manage.

“You free for a ride?” John asked.

“I sure am. My next appointment isn't for an hour. Where you want to go?”

“Let PJ decide,” John said, and Lavonia laughed and told them to climb in. Rodney hesitated for a moment, but John looked at him with an expression of pure joy, hand squeezing Rodney's briefly, and Rodney swallowed his protest and hauled himself up and into the buggy.

Smelly and incontinent, here we come, he thought.










To Rodney's private relief, the horse wasn't really smelly at all, and the incontinence was easily ignored, since the beast’s nether regions were concealed from view by Lavonia’s high perch. The young woman chatted with John for a couple of minutes, enough for Rodney to realize she must be an alumnus of the Project's small business program, then eyed Rodney with an arch of her brow and told John with mock solemnity and an exaggerated wink that she was going to leave him alone now. Rodney flushed, and the pointed tips of John's ears turned an interesting shade of pink.

John leaned his head back against the seat back and turned to Rodney. “Sorry. I usually come here alone.”

“You go on buggy rides through Central Park alone?”

“It's not as pathetic as it sounds,” John said, a little defensively, before smiling. “Okay, well, I guess it is as pathetic as it sounds, but I still enjoy it. Sometimes the city gets to be too much for me and I need a little quiet time, you know?” John lifted an arm, indicating the carriage, the gentle sway of the buggy, the soft clip-clop of the horse's hooves on the pavement. “Maybe when I've been here longer, I'll get used to it. But in the meantime, there's Lavonia and Peej, and the trees, and the night sky. Better than therapy, and less expensive.”

“I've lived here for twenty years and the crowds and the traffic still annoy the hell out of me,” Rodney muttered. “I never thought of the horse cure.”

“Well, then, it's a good thing you've got me, isn't it?” John murmured. Rodney stared at him, startled by the words, and John looked a little surprised himself at first, like he hadn't meant it exactly the way it sounded, or hadn't meant to let it slip. And then his expression shifted to one of stubborn determination: yeah, he seemed to be saying, okay, so what if I did mean it?

Slowly, gaze never leaving John's face, Rodney nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice cracking, “I guess it is.”

And between one breath and the next, the city's noise and bustle seemed to melt away. But Rodney seriously doubted that the buggy ride had anything to do with it.










Rodney twitched awake when the smell of bacon invaded his nostrils, making them itch. He immediately sat up, blinking and dazed, then sucked in a fast breath and sneezed.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and John poked his head around the half-closed door. “You okay in here?”

“I'm fine,” Rodney said darkly, always out of sorts before his morning jolt of caffeine, and doubly so for being shocked into consciousness. “It was only a sneeze.”

John laughed. “You're kidding. It sounded like the call of a dying elephant.”

“This from a man who laughs like Francis the Talking Mule!” Rodney shot back as John's head disappeared again.

When Rodney had put himself together sufficiently to stagger out to the kitchen in his bathrobe, he found John fully dressed, humming cheerfully as he popped a couple of bagel slices into the toaster.

“Here,” he said, handing Rodney something that smelled like the most delicious corner of heaven. He wrapped his hands around the steaming mug and narrowly missed sticking his nose right in it.

“Oh God,” Rodney breathed. “This is –” he took a sip “– as good as it smells.” He looked up at John, feeling almost reverent. “How did you do it?” He bought $20 a pound coffee and he still couldn't make it taste as good as it did in the café down the street. It was one of the great mysteries of his existence.

“I went for a run this morning, and there was a coffee shop nearby that was open early. They had one of these,” John said, holding up a glass-sided coffee press. “You didn't have one, and I didn't know how to work that contraption of yours.”

Rodney glanced at his three hundred dollar fully automatic gold filter state-of-the-art coffee maker. The first chance he got, it was going to Goodwill. “Thank you,” he murmured, gulping down another quarter cup. “Um. Could I have this topped up?”

John grinned as he took the mug from him. “Feeling a little better?”

Rodney sighed. “Not really.”

John handed him the refilled mug, then rested his arms on Rodney's shoulders. “Don't want to go back to work, huh?”

“How'd you guess?” Rodney said morosely.

“I've been there,” John said, offering no further details. “Problem is, it only gets harder the longer you stay away.”

“I know that,” Rodney muttered, still feeling peevish. John's only answer was to kiss him – on the forehead. Rodney hadn't been kissed on the forehead since – no, he was pretty sure even his own mother hadn't kissed him on the forehead. And considering what they'd been up to in Rodney's bed – and shower, and floor – last night, it seemed more than a little incongruous, though it still managed to take the sharp edge off his mood.

“How about we do this,” John said, letting him go and turning the heat down on the bacon, “you tell me how you like your eggs, and we'll see if we can't figure this out after you've got some cholesterol in you.”

Rodney looked at the line of John's slim neck, bowed slightly as he cracked an egg into a bowl, and felt an overpowering urge to wrap his arms around him and nuzzle that vulnerable stretch of skin.

It was surprisingly easy to do.

“Scrambled,” Rodney said, lips brushing the stubble at John's hairline, and John nodded and picked up the whisk.










Rodney wasn't sure what would happen when he arrived at the studio with John in tow – or rather, when John arrived at the studio with Rodney in tow, because even after the infusion of cholesterol, he was still fairly sure he would try to run when he reached the door. With only a small shove from John, though, he made it safely across the threshold and into the studio, and then Laura spied him and there was no escape.

“Rodney!” she said, smiling and striding forward. “Welcome back.”

“For heaven's sake, I was only gone two days,” Rodney grumbled, but Laura's gaze was already fixed on John. Rodney rolled his eyes and said, “John Sheppard, meet my business manager, Laura Cadman.”

“Ms. Cadman,” John said pleasantly. “It's a pleasure.”

“Laura, please,” she said, taking the hand he offered and shaking it firmly.

“Laura,” John allowed, unleashing his most bland smile. Rodney looked at Laura, expecting to see frank appreciation or equally frank disbelief – of the how the hell did Rodney bag this one? variety – but instead all he saw was a guarded speculation. It was strange, and faintly annoying.

“All right, so what's on for today?” Rodney demanded.

Laura raised her eyebrows at him. “I took the liberty of rescheduling your first session so that you could – ease back into things. Your next client's not coming ‘til eleven. In the meantime, I thought you and I could talk a little about choosing a new cover. You know, for the book?”

“Okay, that's – that's fine,” Rodney managed, fighting a rising feeling of panic. “I can do that. Good.”

“Rodney, breathe,” John said, placing a firm hand on Rodney's shoulder that had the effect of calming him instantly.

“I'll be fine,” Rodney said, sucking in air through his teeth like a woman about to have a baby.

“We can do the tour another time,” John said softly.

“No, I want to show you the studio. Would you mind having a look around yourself first? It's right through there. This won't take long.”

John watched him for another few seconds, then nodded. “Okay. See you soon.” He threw one last glance at Laura over Rodney's shoulder, then headed off in the direction Rodney had indicated.

Laura waited until John was out of earshot to speak. “Cute. Where'd you find him?”

Rodney glared at her. “Central Park.”

“His hair isn't exactly regulation. He retired?”

“Retired? Regulation? What are you talking about?” Rodney snapped.

Laura lifted her chin in the direction of the studio. “He's ex-military, isn't he?”

Rodney scowled. “I don't know. How do you know? Was that some kind of secret handshake?”

Laura shrugged. “It's not any one thing – mainly the way he carries himself.”

Rodney felt his anger, not exactly far from the surface right now, bubble over at the thought his hired help would know more about John's background after thirty seconds than he would know after two days of getting naked and sweaty with the man. “While I'm sure that's fascinating, I think we should choose the cover, don't you? What's your suggestion?”

Laura started to walk toward his office. “I have a few likely candidates on your desk.”

Rodney shook his head. “I don't want to go to my office right now. I can barely stand the thought of walking into that studio. Tell me which ones they are.”

Laura hesitated, then sighed. “The Benazir Bhutto one, the George Clooney, and the Colin Powell.”

“No, no and no. There, that was easy.”

Laura folded her arms. “Okay, then what's your pick?”

Rodney pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't have one. I'll think about it and let you know.”

“I'm scheduled to meet with the publishers next Thursday, and I need to be able to bring them a replacement.”

A week away. Fine, he could do that. “You'll have one,” Rodney said shortly, and turned to head toward the studio. He tried taking a step, but he seemed to have temporarily forgotten how to walk. Jesus Christ. Suddenly, the hall that stretched before him was a mile long.

And then he remembered who was waiting for him at the end of that hall. He closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped forward.

John was studying Rodney's Sinar when Rodney entered the studio, his hands neatly clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease. It occurred to Rodney he'd seen John do that last night, when he'd been talking to Lavonia; now that he knew what to look for, it was obvious.

“Wow, this is your regular camera?” John asked.

“That's it,” Rodney answered.

“It looks like it was made a hundred years ago.”

Rodney raised his chin. “It's only two years old, but the basic technology hasn't changed much.”

John smiled at him. “Can you show me how it works?”

And so for the next half hour, Rodney explained the setup of large format cameras, how they differed from 35mm, what the advantages were, the disadvantages. He took John through his lighting setup and showed how the position of each one changed the mood of the shot.

“The fanciest pictures I ever had taken were for my high school graduation,” John said, fingers idly brushing the edge of the key light softbox cover. “There was this one I really liked, but my mother hated it. Said it made me look sinister.”

“It was probably shot using what's known as Rembrandt lighting,” Rodney said, moving almost by instinct to move the fill light back, reposition the main. “Usually there're about two stops – I mean, usually one light is much stronger than the other. You can even turn the fill light away or mask it, but that's different again. If you want to get really dramatic, you can be lit from below, but that's pretty unflattering for most people.” His setup roughed in, he rolled out his canvas backdrop, then stuck one of his benches under it. “Here. Sit.”

“If I roll over and play dead, do I get a Milk-bone?” John asked, smirking. Rodney pointed, and John sat.

“Now, pick a pose, anything you want.”

John hesitated. He tried turning one way, then another; shifted his legs to the left, then the right; lifted his chin and lowered it. Rodney watched him through the groundglass, offering no direction. He was curious to see what John would come up with.

Rodney's modus operandi had always been a little different from that of his more traditional colleagues. Other photographers tried to learn more about their subjects, encouraging them to bare their souls so that a suitable backdrop could be inserted behind them and a pose that revealed their inner truth could be chosen. Maybe Rodney had reacted from merely selfish motives – he carried plenty of baggage of his own, and so had no interest in boning up on the neuroses of the people he photographed – but it was also a reaction to what he felt was a cynical exploitation of the image to achieve a desired effect. That was PR, not photography. Rodney had always taken the view that it wasn't his job to make his subjects happy or pretty, only to make a true portrait, warts and all. And the best person to help deliver that was the subject him- or herself.

“I can't think of one,” John said finally, throwing up his hands. “Everything I come up with is a cliché.”

Rodney smiled behind the safe bulk of the camera. That was a common complaint, at least from people bright enough to recognize clichés. Standing up, he walked over to the studio door and threw the deadbolt, then switched off the overhead lights.

John frowned. “How come that doesn't make it too dark?”

“Because flash units are quite a bit more powerful than fluorescent lighting,” Rodney answered.

“Right, yeah,” John said, grimacing. He leapt to his feet suddenly. “I feel – ”

“What?” Rodney asked softly.

John shook his head. “I don't know.” He squinted in Rodney's general direction. “I can't see you.”

Rodney frowned; this wasn't going the way he'd expected. In the short time he'd known him, John appeared to be completely unflappable; now, the act of framing a portrait had him restless, agitated, edging toward anxiety. “We don't have to do this,” he offered.

John froze. “No, it's okay. I think I have an idea.” He made an aborted move for the hem of his sweater, let it go, then impulsively yanked it up and over his head.

Rodney sucked in a breath. “Okay, okay, that's – ” John's jeans hung low on his hips, and his hair was even more rumpled than usual. In this light, his spare frame looked slight, his collarbones steeply upswept toward his bony shoulders. Hesitation gone, John sat on the bench, legs toward the backdrop, and half turned his body toward the camera so that his back was to the key light. He then leaned his elbows on his knees so that his back became a graceful curve, the focus light highlighting the knobs of his spinal column. Rodney blinked a few times, then sprang into action. He quickly turned away the fill completely, masked the background light and cranked up the hair light; this would be virtually single source, and if he did this right, John's face would be a shadowed mystery.

He returned to the camera, composed and focused almost on instinct, then grabbed the Quickloader his assistant always left out for him – and which he rarely used – and loaded it on the back of the camera. There was no time to start with a Polaroid to confirm the exposure; somehow he knew he was only getting one shot at this.

When he stepped around the camera and approached John, he saw that those bowed shoulders were trembling. Tentatively, not at all sure he was doing the right thing, he laid a gentle hand on John's back. John jerked as though Rodney's fingers were live wires.

“Done?” The word was a breathless gust of air.

“Yes,” Rodney answered. Back still turned to Rodney, John picked his sweater up off the floor and donned it quickly.

Rodney wanted to ask several things, like what the hell was that? and what did I do wrong? but when John stood and turned back around again, his face was blank. Not bland, not boringly pleasant the way it had been with Laura, but blank. “Hey, uh, I have an appointment in about an hour, so I really should –”

“Right, of course, I –” And suddenly Rodney was irrationally terrified he was never going to see John again, which made no sense, really, but it didn't stop him from babbling, “Listen, there's a party on Saturday night – it's going to be full of pretentious people, but the food is terrific and the booze is better, and it would actually be bearable with you there, which I know doesn't exactly recommend it, but – ”

“Hey, hey, hey,” John murmured, and then, oh thank God, he was taking Rodney by the hips and drawing him closer. “You want me there, I'll be there.”

“Okay, good, thank you.” Rodney clamped his mouth shut around the words that were threatening to spill out again.

John kissed him softly. “You gonna make it through the day?”

“If I don't, you'll doubtless hear about it on the evening news.”

John smiled and squeezed him lightly. “I'll call you later on, okay? No jumping off bridges before then.”

“I promise,” Rodney said, and John nodded and kissed him again before letting him go. He turned to leave, and Rodney decided that he could save himself from appearing totally pathetic by not seeing John to the door. As soon as John had left the studio, Rodney removed the film from the camera and took it to his darkroom. Prints were another matter, but he usually had his assistant develop his monochrome negs. As competent as she was, however, he was going to do this one himself. He wanted to be the only one to touch it, to take it all the way from first exposure to finished print.

About an hour later, he hung the neg on clips to dry and turned on the light to see it for the first time. Even with light as dark and dark as light, it was clear the neg was perfectly exposed. It was also clear that even half turned away, his face in shadow, John had shown more of himself to Rodney in one sixtieth of a second than he'd shown in the last forty-odd hours. And this image showed a very different person than the affable, confident man who'd helped Rodney remain standing the last couple of days. By contrast, this man seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his slim, fragile shoulders.

No, worse: he was carrying the weight of his sins. But unlike most confessions, there was no plea for forgiveness here, only defiance and determination.

“Christ, John,” Rodney breathed, wrapping his arms around himself to stop the trembling. “Who the hell are you?”










Thanks to Laura's insightful scheduling, his two clients were intelligent, self-possessed and extremely low maintenance – just the way Rodney liked them. The first was an absolute dream to photograph, but considering she was an advisor to the Kenyan ambassador to the UN and had the most perfect profile Rodney had ever seen, he expected no less. The second, while not quite as accomplished, had been a client of Rodney's since his first days struggling in that hideous Hell's Kitchen studio, and always presented Rodney with a new pose, a new expression, a new incarnation. The easy familiarity of working with him was exactly what Rodney needed today.

After the studio closed its doors for the day and his assistant had finished developing the negs, Rodney went to Laura's office and said, “Grab your coat. I'm buying you a drink. Or maybe several.”

Laura stared at him for a moment, and Rodney snorted. “If I'd known asking you for a drink would actually render you speechless, I'd have asked you a long time ago.”

Laura raised an eyebrow. “Don't worry, it's only temporary.”

“Oh, goody.” Rodney jerked his head in the direction of the door. “You coming or not?”

Chuckling, Laura rose and followed him out. It was a short hop in a taxi to the Astor Bar, where Rodney ordered a triple martini as a reward for surviving the day. Laura watched him across the table, slowly drinking her own whiskey and soda.

“Did you call Elizabeth yet to RSVP?” Laura asked.

“Yes, I did, mother,” Rodney said. “This afternoon.”

Laura's eyes twinkled, always a bad sign. “Are you bringing John?”

Rodney could feel his cheeks warming. “I told her I was bringing a friend, yes.” Elizabeth had been too well-bred to question him directly, but he could tell she'd been intrigued: he'd always attended these functions alone.

Laura smiled and leaned back against the bench. He expected an arch comment, but all she said was, “Good for you.” Rodney had no idea what to say to that, so he took another sip of his martini, and they drank in companionable silence for a couple of minutes.

Rodney was about to signal the waiter for another round when his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and peered at it, but the number was unfamiliar. “Hello?” he said warily.

“Hey, Rodney.” John's voice enveloped him in sudden, unexpected warmth. “Sorry I'm late calling you.”

“Oh, that's – not a problem,” Rodney said, casting a quick glance at Laura, who was seemingly absorbed in watching the other patrons. He heard the booming and indistinct mumble of an intercom announcement coming through from John's end of the line. “Where are you?”

“I, uh, I'm at JFK,” John said, and it scared Rodney a little that he could picture the sheepish expression on John's face. “I have to fly to Virginia for a couple of days.” There was a pause. “Listen, I don't know if I'll make that party on Saturday.”

“Oh,” Rodney said again. “That's all right.”

“It's not all right,” John said, and for the first time, he sounded angry. “I'm really sorry. I’m going to try to get back in time. What's the address?”

Rodney told him Elizabeth's address, and John said, “If I can make it, I will. I promise.”

“It's really not that important,” Rodney protested.

“You asked me,” John said, still with that edge of anger that Rodney now realized was directed inward. “That makes it important.”

Rodney flushed with pleasure. “Well,” he managed, then cleared his throat. “Look, I know this is none of my business, really, but are you – all right? Is there anything I can do?”

“Nope, and nope,” John said, with a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “But thanks. I'll try to be there, okay?”

“Okay,” Rodney said, stupidly.

“And Rodney?” John said. “It is your business.” And with that, he hung up.

Rodney stared at the phone for a few moments before flipping it closed. When he looked up, Laura was just downing the last of her whiskey.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said, smiling, then sliding out of the bench.

Rodney opened his mouth, then shut it. “No problem. Thank you for today.” He looked down at his own glass, nearly empty, and decided against another round. He would grab some takeout and go home. Watch TV. Go to bed early.

“See you tomorrow?” Rodney looked up to see Laura watching him with an expression that wasn't quite sympathy, but was more than professional concern.

“Yes,” Rodney said simply. “I'll be there.”

Smiling, Laura reached down and squeezed his hand briefly before leaving. After another couple of minutes, Rodney dug in his wallet and dropped a couple of bills on the table, then followed her lead. He picked up some Chinese on the way back to the studio, where he spent four hours working with the neg until he had a print he was satisfied with. When he finally got home, he staggered to the bedroom, shedding clothes as he went, and was thankfully too exhausted to feel sorry for himself.









Friday morning was surprisingly uneventful, since Laura had worked her magic again and scheduled clients who wouldn't do anything to drive Rodney the rest of the way around the bend. Unfortunately, that state of affairs swiftly ended at noon, when Rodney checked his messages.

“Why didn't you tell me I had a message from Teyla Emmagen?” Rodney demanded after summoning Laura to his office.

Laura started ticking off points on her fingers. “Well, how about one: I don't know who Teyla Emmagen is, two: you never told me I should inform you if you received any calls from Teyla Emmagen...”

“All right, yes, thank you,” Rodney said, picking up the phone and starting to dial. He looked up to see Laura still standing there, glaring at him. “What would you like to hear? I'm sorry? You're right? I'm an asshole?”

“Getting warmer,” Laura said sweetly, turning on her heel and leaving.

Scowling, Rodney completed his call and was quickly routed to Teyla, who wasted no time getting to the point. “Rodney, I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had seen John today.”

“No, I haven't,” Rodney said, puzzled by the question; obviously she didn't know he was out of town. “He called me last night about six-thirty and said he was flying to Virginia.”

There was a weighty pause on the other end of the line. “Oh. Thank you for telling me.”

“Listen, I know I don't have a right to ask, but – I'm worried about him,” Rodney blurted. “What's going on? Is he all right?”

There was another pause. “John has been working for many months on a new Atlantis initiative he has been leading. It involves helping young people to buy affordable housing through sweat equity and low interest loans. He has been trying to sell the program to potential investors and banks, but he has been unsuccessful so far. Yesterday afternoon was the last interview he had lined up. He called after his appointment to let us know they'd turned him down and that he would be back to work on Monday. We thought he was merely in need of a break.”

“So I'm guessing he's not taking a break in Virginia,” Rodney said.

Teyla's tone turned apologetic. “I wish I could tell you more, Rodney, but John is a very – private man.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Rodney muttered.

Teyla chuckled softly. “Then you understand why it would be best if he told you the rest himself. If it helps at all, I am worried about him as well.”

“Right,” Rodney said, nodding. “I understand. Thanks for telling me as much as you did.”

He could hear the smile in Teyla's voice. “If you see him before I do, will you please ask him to call me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I will do the same for you,” Teyla said warmly. “Be well.”

“You, too,” Rodney said. After they'd hung up, Rodney sat for some time, staring at the wall, mind going in a hundred different directions. When the phone rang again, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Yes, what is it?” Rodney demanded, irritated at being interrupted.

“Your afternoon appointment is here,” Laura said. “She's been here for twenty minutes. Would you like to come out and photograph her, or should I ask her to go to the Wal-Mart studio in Jersey?”

Well, an entire hour couldn't have passed already; she had to be early. Rodney opened his mouth to tell Laura so, then glanced at his watch.

Dammit, she didn't have to be right all the time, did she? “I'm coming out,” he growled.

“Wal-Mart will be so disappointed,” Laura said, and hung up.

“I never should have bought you that drink,” Rodney muttered at the phone before slamming it back in its cradle.











Saturday felt more like three days instead of one, days spent at your great-aunt's house sitting on plastic furniture and trying to work up enthusiasm about zinnias and poodle breeding. Rodney had never had any experience with waiting by the phone, and by the time the interminable afternoon had finally ticked over into evening, he never wanted to do it again.

Finally reconciled to the fact that he would be attending yet another party alone, Rodney showered, shaved, threw on a half-decent shirt and headed over to Elizabeth's penthouse apartment on Central Park West. On a Saturday night, even a taxi ride from Riverside took an insane amount of time, so Rodney decided to try the subway. He made it there in half the time he usually did, and saved about sixty dollars.

Christ, two days with John the community organizer and he was turning into one of those freaks who used public transit.

Elizabeth, too patrician to be fazed by all-out nuclear war, let alone by a missing guest, made no comment when Rodney showed up alone. She welcomed him as always, with a martini prepared exactly the way he liked it.

“Marry me,” Rodney sighed, taking his first sip.

Elizabeth laughed with perfect musical precision. “Rodney, you say the most outrageous things,” she trilled, patting him on the arm. “Come on, I'd like you to meet some people.”

Rodney allowed himself to be corralled, if only because over the last five years, Elizabeth had brought him more new clients than any ten people combined. More than that, she was one of those patricians who was secure in her place in the world, without any need to outshine the people she invited to her parties. Nevertheless, her presence guided the complex interactions between the eclectic mix of politicians, diplomats, actors, artists and the filthy rich in a way that seemed like alchemy to Rodney, who was the first to admit he had certain shortcomings in the field of interpersonal relationships.

Rodney looked down after talking for five minutes with the newest crop of avant-garde sculptors that Elizabeth had gathered to her, and noticed his martini glass was empty. “Excuse me,” Rodney said, holding up a finger. “I'm not nearly drunk enough yet.” Polite laughter greeted this statement; obviously they had no idea he wasn't kidding.

Despite his plan, Rodney was only on his second martini nearly an hour later, having been distracted by the truly spectacular hors d'oeuvres. It occurred to him that eating away his troubles was nearly as bad as drinking them away, but right now he really didn't give a damn.

He was cramming a sweet potato tempura roll in his face when Elizabeth wove her way through the growing crowd and seized his arm. “Rodney, look who's here!” she gushed. Elizabeth never gushed; because of that Rodney knew who he was going to see a split second before John squeezed through the throng.

He was saved from coming up with an immediate reaction by the large mouthful of food, which he hastily chewed and swallowed. In that time, he managed to notice three interesting things about John: his gaze was glassy and fixed, his smile was just two degrees short of moronic, and he seemed to be incapable of staying completely still. There was a slight circular weave to his upper body, as though he were a top winding down into its final spin before toppling on its side.

It didn't take a genius to realize that John was not only drunk, he was one step from messy drunk, and two steps from falling down on his ass drunk. And considering it was only nine o'clock and he'd just arrived, that meant he'd been drinking for some time before he got here. Without thinking about it, Rodney reached out to take John by the arm.

His hand never connected, because John shot him a look that actually made him take a step back instead of forward. It practically screamed keep away, and Rodney sucked in a breath and obeyed on instinct. He hadn't been completely convinced of Laura’s theory concerning John's background, but after seeing that look, it was clear John had had some military training. Only a trained soldier could look that forbidding and not have his hands around someone's throat.

“Hey, Rodney,” John said, smile reappearing so quickly Rodney thought he might have hallucinated the last fifteen seconds, “long time no see.”

“Yes,” Rodney said inanely. “I'm glad you made it after all.”

“I told you I'd keep my promise. And I always keep my promises,” John added solemnly, nodding at Elizabeth. “I'm good at that. Except when I'm not.”

“Of course you are, dear boy,” Elizabeth said sweetly, patting him on the arm. “Rodney, I have to go check on Artemis; they cancelled her show and she's a little fragile tonight. You'll both excuse me, won't you?”

“Of course,” Rodney said. John bobbed his head in a manner resembling some kind of lizard practicing its mating dance.

“Okay,” Rodney said, as soon as Elizabeth was gone, “I think it would probably be a good idea to – ”

“Oooh, sushi!” John exclaimed, snagging a salmon roll and touching six others in the process. An older man standing next to them shot them a disapproving look, and Rodney glared back until he flushed and turned away.

“Okay,” Rodney said, while John had his mouth full of sushi. “I think this might be a good time to make our exit.”

“But I just got here,” John whined. At least that's what Rodney guessed he said: it sounded more like, “Whunfuh nnfhoffrr” because of the sushi.

Rodney sighed. “You realize you'll just be puking that within the next hour, don't you?”

A young woman behind John clutched at his arm, making him turn in a wobbly fashion to face her. “Oh my God, I used to be bulimic, too.” She fished in her purse and tugged out a card, then pressed it into John's free hand. “This man helped me so much. You should go see him as soon as you can.”

John peered blearily down at the card, and the woman squeezed his arm again before letting go and heading off into the crowd.

“Doctor Feelgood?” John said slowly.

“What? Give me that,” Rodney snapped, snatching the card from John's hand and reading it. “It's Doctor Franklin!” he spluttered.

A slow, lazy grin lit up John's features. “Yeah. Too bad. Might've gone if his name was more interesting.” Spying a passing waiter carrying flutes of champagne, he made a frightening cooing noise and snagged one off the tray. A couple of the other glasses wobbled as he brushed them, but thankfully the waiter managed to prevent disaster and continued on his way, unfazed.

“Listen,” Rodney murmured, as John guzzled his drink, “I know you've had a shitty few days, and I'd like to be able to go somewhere where we can – you know, talk about it.”

John lowered his glass, now empty, and began scanning the room, evidently in search of the waiter. “Well, I don't,” he said mildly, but with an unmistakable edge that sent a chill up Rodney's spine. “You invited me to a party, and it's very nice, and I'd like to stick around for a while.”

“Looks like you've already been partying,” Rodney muttered, immediately regretting the words when whatever light that had been left in John's eyes went out entirely.

“Did you know they open the bars at Dulles at eleven?” John asked, voice completely flat. “I had nowhere else to go, so I went early, and wow! Cool surprise.”

Gathering his courage, Rodney finally stepped forward and took John's arm. “John, please. Let's go.”

John's expression suddenly turned weary, and he scrubbed at his face with a hand. “No, you stay. I should never have come.”

“Believe me, I've been ready to leave since I got here,” Rodney said fervently, still holding on to John's arm. “We'll get a cab and –”

“No.” John's voice was just loud enough to make the couple nearest them turn around and stare. “I need to be alone.”

Rodney felt his cheeks heat, but mercifully, the couple had had the good manners to turn back around. “Oh, well,” Rodney said, “I'll call you tomorrow, then, and we can – ”

John stared at a spot over Rodney's shoulder, sucked in his lower lip briefly before speaking. “Look, I don't – I don't know if this is such a good idea.”

Rodney's mouth worked silently for a moment, as he frantically tried to work out how to salvage what was rapidly turning into a disaster. The hell of it was, this time he didn't think it had anything to do with him. “Oh. Well, I – so just to be clear, are you saying that calling tomorrow isn't a good idea, or – ”

“Rodney,” John said, gaze still lifeless, “it's not you, okay? I'm not – I should never have – fuck.” He hung his head.

Rodney felt his stomach plummet for his shoes. “Please,” he murmured, and okay, yes, he knew he was begging, and he didn't give a shit at this point, “let's just – go somewhere and talk about this.”

John finally met Rodney's gaze, and it was then that Rodney knew he was doomed. Dumped in the middle of a party; it was the kind of humiliation he'd managed to avoid since junior high. “You said it was my business,” Rodney murmured. “Let me help.” Let me in, he knew he was really saying, and John seemed to know it too, for his eyes widened like a frightened animal, and Rodney realized then that he'd lost.

He also realized he'd never asked that of anyone before.

“I'm sorry,” John whispered, inaudible above the din, but Rodney could tell what he was saying. And before he could tighten his hold, John had slipped free of his clutching fingers and disappeared into the crowd.










Rodney refused to be pathetic and call John, or worse, show up at his apartment. He had called Teyla only once, on the Monday after the party to let her know he'd seen John; it was the least he could do after forgetting to tell him to call her. Apparently, he'd already turned up there, true to his word, so the call had been a waste of time, though it was at least a bit of a boost to hear Teyla thank him warmly and tell him she hoped to see him again soon. He hadn't bothered to explain why that was extremely unlikely, just had spouted some inane pleasantries and hung up.

He didn't go back to Harlem, but Central Park was harder to avoid. As the days grew colder and the trees flamed into brilliance, Rodney was drawn to it like a magnet. He continued to use the digital camera, taking shot after shot of landscapes, children, young men playing football, old women practicing tai chi, and while he discarded most of them at the end of the day, he was gradually building up a body of work. One weekend, he took a CD full of them to his favorite color lab and had them printed, then took them home and spread them all over his living room floor like scattered leaves. Over the next couple of days, he arranged and rearranged them, trying to find coherence, meaning, but it kept eluding him. Finally admitting defeat, he piled them into a box and put them away. He tried to tell himself it was only a temporary setback.

And then one day, nearly a month after the party, he shelled out a ridiculous amount of money to have Lavonia Hawkins and PJ take him through the park. It was cold enough that he needed the thick blanket she provided, but the chill in his bones had nothing to do with the temperature, and when he stepped down from the carriage at the end of the ride, he was still shivering.

“I haven't seen John around lately,” Lavonia said. “He doin' all right?”

“I wouldn't know,” Rodney murmured. PJ turned to him, as though interested in the conversation. Rodney tentatively patted its nose.

“That's too bad,” she said slowly, the question in her eyes obvious and blatant.

Rodney fought down his embarrassment – hell, it wasn't as though either of them was under any illusions as to why he was here – and asked, “What was he like? I mean, as a tutor?”

Lavonia hesitated before answering. “You know that crap Bush was pushing a few years back, that 'no child left behind' garbage? Well, the people at Atlantis actually believe in it and do everything they can to make it happen. But John – he lives it. He puts his soul into every minute with you. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here now.”

Rodney frowned. “I thought Teyla was in charge of the small business initiatives.”

“She is. But I never would have even talked to her in the first place if he hadn't helped me. All my life, I loved horses and wanted to do something with them, but everything I knew about them was from books. John taught me about them in his spare time. Took me out to Jersey and showed me how to ride, how to shoe them and brush them and take care of them. Helped me get a summer job at a stable over there. They never would have looked at me if he hadn't put in a good word for me, made them see what I could do.” She looked right at him. “He made my dream real. I owe him everything.”

Rodney was horrified to realize his throat suddenly felt tight and his eyes were pricking with tears. “Well, I – thank you for the ride,” he said.

P.J. nudged his shoulder, and Lavonia nodded solemnly and shook his hand. “Anytime, Mr. McKay.”










Rodney got very little sleep that night, not only because he spent most of it thinking about John. Laura was scheduled to meet with the publishers that morning, and he didn't exactly have high hopes, despite her skills as a negotiator. From the look in Laura's eye as she sat down in front of him that afternoon, he could tell what few hopes he had left were about to be flushed into the East River.

“They're going to drop you,” Laura said, without preamble.

Rodney goggled at her. “Wow, don't I even rate any sugar-coating?”

Laura raised an eyebrow. “I figured you wouldn't want any.”

“Well, you were wrong,” Rodney snapped, rising to his feet and beginning to pace. “I like sugar. I like it very much.”

“I've noticed,” Laura drawled. “Look, I'm sorry. I tried everything I could – ”

“I know you did,” Rodney said, more evenly. It was true: Laura had worked tirelessly over the last month, presenting his publishers with proposal after proposal for the cover, but they'd rejected every one.

“They just kept harping on Brad and Angelina,” Laura sighed, leaning back in her chair. “It was like listening to a broken frigging record. I couldn't get them off it, no matter what.”

“It wasn't your fault. And it was never about anyone specific for the cover. The truth is that if they'd given in to me on this, they would have been admitting weakness, admitting creative control could win out over vapid celebrity worship and crass commercialism.” Laura eyed him. “All right, I know I'm being paranoid.”

“No, you're making a twisted kind of sense.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Or maybe I've been working here too long.”

“What about the other publishers? Any luck?” Rodney asked.

Laura shook her head. “Your publishers have been talking to them. Telling them you're a – well, that you're a princess. Too difficult to work with.”

“I've been blacklisted?” Rodney spluttered.

“Essentially.” Laura closed her eyes. “I think I'll see if the Marines still want me. After this, having people shoot at you doesn't seem so bad.”

Rodney chewed at his lip. “Hold on, hold on, we're not finished yet.” He paced to the other side of the office and back. There had to be another way out, something that wouldn't mean crawling to his publishers or killing every chance he had to see another book of his photographs in print.

He'd been feeling somewhat bereft of inspiration for a while now, so when the idea hit him, he felt a little light-headed with disbelief. “Call that twelve-year-old,” he ordered, snapping his fingers at Laura. “The Oscar-winner. You know.”

“Harmony Esposito,” Laura said slowly.

“Yes, yes, that's the one.”

“She's thirteen now.”

Rodney glared. “All right, all right. Call her.”

“Forgive my impudence, but what for? I'm sure she'll say yes, but in case you missed the point of this conversation, your publishers are going to say no to any cover you propose.”

“They'll accept this one,” Rodney said, with a confidence he shouldn't be feeling. Maybe this was what madness felt like, he mused.

“Why?”

Rodney smiled. “Because when I'm done talking to her, Harmony Esposito is going to donate the proceeds of her cover cut to a worthy cause, just like I am. And when I get through with the heartless bastards, so are my publishers.”










Rodney was in his kitchen trying to decide between leftover Chinese takeout and new Indian takeout when the doorbell rang. It was probably his across-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Van Horne, with another petition to save some obscure animal from extinction. The woman grew petitions like most of his other neighbors grew ficus plants. It was truly horrifying, and tonight Rodney was just of a mind to tell her, for the fiftieth goddamned time, exactly what he thought of her petitions –

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Van Horne,” he said, unlatching the door and throwing it open, “but I honestly don't give a rat's ass about the plight of the Bolivian pygmy water – ”

It wasn't Mrs. Van Horne. It was John, standing there as big as life and completely fucking beautiful right there in the hallway.

“– buffalo,” Rodney breathed.

John's mouth twitched. “I'm pretty sure they don't have water buffaloes in Bolivia,” he said conversationally, “pygmy or otherwise.”

“How did you get in here?” Which, okay, might not have been the best opening, Rodney admitted privately.

John smiled. “Your doorman remembered me. Nice guy.”

Rodney's doorman was, Rodney was fairly sure, a former CIA operative, and was suspicious of everyone who did not live there, including small children and elderly ladies with bad hips, but Rodney was not interested in exploring the topic any further. John was here and it did not matter how this miracle had happened. “Please, come in,” he said, stepping aside to allow John entrance.

John hesitated for a moment before obeying, and Rodney held his breath until the door was safely closed behind him. “I, um, would you like a drink?”

“Got any beer?” John asked, and Rodney did, he certainly did – oh, shit, he didn't. “Um,” Rodney said, pointing at the door, “actually, no, but I can get some – ”

“No, no, that's fine. I'm good.”

“I have wine,” Rodney said, striding over to the fridge and yanking it open. “Water? Coke? Some kind of weird berry juice made from an exotic fruit whose name I can't pronounce?”

“Rodney,” John said, and no, he would not read affection into that tone, he wouldn't. “I came here to talk to you.”

Rodney's hand tightened on the fridge handle, and he closed his eyes briefly, glad his back was to John. “Okay,” he said.

“T.E. got a call this morning from a guy who said he was Harmony Esposito's agent. He asked when would be a good time for her to come by for a photo opportunity.”

Rodney closed his eyes again. Shit. They’d just signed the contracts a couple of days ago; he hadn’t thought anything would happen that quickly. “Oh, I –”

“He was a little bit confused, but then, we all were,” John continued, as though Rodney hadn't spoken. “See, none of us are what you'd call regular readers of the Times' arts section.”

“I'm sorry,” Rodney said. “I should have told you.”

“Are you ever going to turn around, or are you gonna keep talking to the fridge?” John asked softly.

Rodney turned, folding his arms as he did. He figured it would provide him with some sort of defense, and would stop his hands from shaking.

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Rodney,” he said finally, “what you did – it's nuts. I can't – ”

“Look, it's complicated, okay?” Rodney interrupted. “Believe me, this benefits me as much as it does the project. It was purely selfish.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Well,” Rodney added, “mostly selfish. And it's a great tax write-off.”

“There are a thousand other charities you could have donated to. Why this one?”

“It was the first one that came to mind,” Rodney answered, a little tartly.

“The Times said you and your publisher are donating the proceeds of your book 'to help Harlem youth buy their own homes',” John said, taking a step toward Rodney. “How did you even know about that?”

Rodney raised his chin. “I don't know if I should say.”

“That's really chivalrous of you, but Teyla already admitted she told you.”

“Then why the hell did you ask?” Rodney demanded, suddenly furious. “Seriously, did you come over to ask me questions you already know the answers to? Because if that's why you're here, you can just leave.”

“That's not why I'm here!” John yelled. “I'm here to thank you! And to tell you I was an asshole!”

Rodney stared at him as the words hung in the air. “You – excuse me?”

John ran a hand through his hair. “I suck at this,” he gusted, beginning to pace around Rodney's kitchen like a caged panther. “But I was working on it, you know? I've even been going to see Kate myself – she says I'm more fucked up than the kids, which, yeah, she's right, but – anyway, I was planning to come see you soon, but then this happened, and everybody elected me to come see you and thank you, and I'm not ready. I worked on this all goddamned afternoon and this was the best I could do, okay?” He finally came to rest a couple of steps from Rodney. “Well? Are you going to say something?”

“That took you all afternoon?” Rodney asked. 

“Rodney,” John said. “God, I'm trying to – to apologize, here. To ask you to forgive me. But now it sounds like I'm doing it because you did this crazy, incredible thing – and that's not the reason.”

Rodney took a step toward John and unknotted his arms. “What – what is the reason?”

John held Rodney's gaze, then slowly, carefully, brushed Rodney's cheek with his fingers. “Well, first and foremost, because I was an asshole,” he murmured, “not to mention a coward. I've never been all that good at needing people. And it scared the shit out of me that after only two days, I was already there.”

Rodney's heart began to pound, but there was something he needed to know: whether John could put his money where his mouth was. “What happened in Virginia?”

John shut his eyes briefly, took a deep breath. “I went to see my dad,” he said. “He was my last resort if the investors didn't come through with the funding. The money I was looking for is pocket change to him – I was hoping I could sell it to him the same way I'd tried to do with the investors.” He chuckled bitterly. “I even brought the fucking portfolio, with the graphs and everything.”

“I take it you didn't have any luck,” Rodney said.

“He threw me out,” John said shortly. “And to be fair, if I'd been him, I would've thrown me out too. We hadn't spoken in over four years, and we weren't exactly on good terms before that.”

“I'm sorry,” Rodney murmured, placing a tentative hand on John's chest. John swayed into it, and Rodney could feel the beat of his heart through his sweater. “You could've told me.”

“I'm – not really good at baring my soul,” John murmured.

“I gathered that,” Rodney drawled. “Mind you, you're doing pretty well tonight. Though I think you need to call yourself an asshole a few more times.”

John chuckled, then slid his hand down Rodney's neck, making him shiver. “I couldn't stop thinking about you,” he whispered. “I wanted to see you, but I knew I'd screwed up, and I didn't know how to make it right.” He leaned in, then hesitated. “I - I'm kind of a mess.”

“Just so you know, your sales technique is lousy,” Rodney murmured, brushing his lips against John's.

“Hey, I'm trying to do the honorable thing here,” John protested, mouth moving against Rodney's, “let you know what you're letting yourself in for.”

Rodney sighed. “Fine. But I'm still going to forgive you.”

“Well, don't say I didn't warn you,” John said, and now Rodney could almost taste his grin.

“John.” Rodney gripped his chin. “Shut. Up.” And when there was no answer, Rodney rewarded him with a kiss.










Epilogue


In February they played soccer again in the park with a soccer ball painted fluorescent yellow. Rodney had been helping Atlantis' students and staff alike with their technique – because really, they were pathetic – and after nearly four months they actually had some technique. None of it was in evidence that afternoon, though, because the game turned into a silly, laughing snowball fight within about fifteen minutes of the starting whistle. Rodney suspected John as the instigator, but no one would squeal on him, so he eventually dropped the charges for lack of evidence. And a half hour later, when the snow began melting inside his snow pants, considerations of causality were no longer uppermost in his mind.

They bid goodbye to Teyla and Ronon and the kids and headed off to Rodney's apartment, where John stripped Rodney out of his clothes (“Your little snow suit is so adorable,” John murmured, and Rodney should have protested, but that was when John dropped to his knees and things got kind of hazy after that) and dragged him into the shower. By then, Rodney had finally thawed enough to retaliate: he shoved John up against the wall and kissed him slowly until John whimpered and clutched at him, begging for more.

“What do you want?” Rodney whispered, nipping at John's ear, his chin, the thin, vulnerable skin where neck met shoulder. John groaned, then pushed Rodney away just enough so that he could turn toward the wall. Rodney watched, dry-mouthed, as John spread his legs and braced his hands against the tile. “Fuck, John,” he breathed.

“That's the general idea, yeah,” John rasped, and in a flash Rodney was out of the shower and scrabbling for the supplies in the medicine cabinet. When he returned with lube and a condom, John's shoulders were shaking with laughter.

“What?” Rodney demanded.

John turned his head and grinned. “Little eager there, are we?”

Rodney dropped the supplies on the shelf under the shower head and came up behind John. “Don't worry,” he growled, “I plan to take my time.” He pressed his erection against John's ass, and John moaned and shoved back eagerly.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Rodney remonstrated, pulling away. John protested wordlessly, but Rodney was concentrating on getting to his knees without slipping and breaking a hip. Once he'd managed it, he slid proprietary hands over John's ass and spread him with his thumbs.

“Oh, Jesus,” John whimpered, and Rodney looked up to see that he'd twisted his head around and was staring at Rodney, open-mouthed. Rodney had never been much of an exhibitionist, but the past couple of months had taught him that John loved to watch Rodney do things to him, and Rodney was nothing if not obliging – well, to a select group of people, anyway. And so he held John's gaze as he leaned in and swept his tongue along the crease of John's ass.

John made a noise that wasn't exactly human, and Rodney spread him further and started a series of teasing little licks just around John's hole. He kept the pressure feather-light and maddening, just enough to drive John crazy, to make him crave more, to need. When John began circling his hips mindlessly in a blind search for more of Rodney's touch, a silent admission that had Rodney dying to get inside him now, he knew it was time. Rising to his feet, he squeezed the lube onto his fingers and eased two inside while John writhed and sighed and, God, thanked him.

Rodney barely managed to get the condom on with shaking, slippery fingers, and then he was pressing in and in and in, and John was cursing and groaning and taking him, deep, deeper, deepest. When he was fully seated, Rodney clung to John's hips and pressed his lips to John's beautiful spine and began counting backwards from a hundred. John panted, as though he was barely holding on, too, and Rodney felt a long shudder travel up from below where they were joined and pass into Rodney like a wave of light through a lens.

“John,” he murmured, lips buzzing against John's skin, “John, I –”

“Yeah, me too,” John agreed, hand covering Rodney's where it gripped John's hip. “Me, too.”

Gathering every scrap of will power he'd ever had (and some he borrowed from John), Rodney drew back slowly, inch by inch, leaving John with reluctance. John groaned and pressed his forehead against the tile. Rodney could feel his legs trembling.

Rodney pushed in again, shallowly, then pulled back, gradually lengthening his strokes, each one slow and measured. John's breaths grew more labored, and the hand that remained on the wall clenched into a fist.

“Do you like it?” Rodney rasped, on the next long, smooth glide. “Do you – ”

“Yeah,” John breathed, “yeah, I – please, Rodney. More.”

“More what?” Rodney demanded. “What do you want?”

John made a soft, choking sound, and Rodney slid a hand up to John's shoulder for better leverage. “I – I want – ” John managed.

Rodney shoved in again, harder this time. “What?” he demanded, when John showed no signs of finishing the sentence.

“Fuck, Rodney, more – of you,” John rasped, as though the words were almost painful to say. “More of you. All of you. Everything.”

Rodney groaned. “You can. You do. You have,” he promised, his strokes growing faster, wilder, more uncontrolled. “John, God.” With one hand on John's shoulder holding him secure as he fucked up into him, Rodney used the other to reach around John's body. Rodney's fingers brushed the tip of John's cock, seeking a grip, but before they could wrap themselves around him, John cried out, stiffened and came all over the tile, and the rhythmic pulse of his orgasm was enough to take Rodney with him.










“You going into the studio tomorrow?” John asked later, when he was wrapped around Rodney in their big, warm (thank God) bed.

Rodney frowned. “Why not? Tomorrow's Wednesday.”

“It's Valentine's Day,” John said, and Rodney could tell he was pouting.

“Oh my God,” Rodney groaned, rolling over to face him. “I can't believe you. Don't you realize it's a holiday dreamed up by the greeting card companies? And if you think we’re going to get anywhere near a restaurant, you’re crazy.”

John regarded him evenly. “I thought we could order take-out and spend the whole day in bed.”

“I'll call Laura,” Rodney said, sitting up to reach for the phone.

John tugged him down again. “Don't bother. I already had her rearrange your schedule.”

Rodney grinned against John's mouth. “Confident, aren't you?”

“Nope, just learned the value of playing hooky every now and then,” John murmured, kissing him.

“It's much more fun if you have someone to play hooky with,” Rodney assured him, kissing him back.

John cupped Rodney's face in his hands and smiled up at him. “So I've heard.”




End



November 2008

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