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Indelible

By the time Teyla told them that they were nearing the settlement, Rodney's running-commentary-slash-litany-of-complaints (ranging from the ridiculous time differences made possible by 'gate travel, the likelihood of some heretofore unknown type of radiation poisoning from the planet's unusual double sun, the unfairness of a universe in which alien pollen was just as detrimental to his delicate sinuses as Earth-standard pollen, the deplorable state of the barely-there path that the team was only following in a cursory manner, the poor quality of the breakfast in the mess segueing into how much Ancient tech Rodney would be willing to trade for something bacon-and-egg-like from the natives, and, of course, the stupidity of humanity as a whole) had morphed into an absent grumble. John noticed because he could actually hear most of Teyla's 'about the natives' speech, which he usually only caught about every fourth word of. Once he connected that to the lack of bitter rambling, he pivoted until he had Rodney in his line of sight, just checking to make sure he was still okay, still with them. Bizarrely enough, Rodney's constant, bitchy monologue had become the aural equivalent of 'all is right with the world' in John's head, and he laughed silently at the idea, at himself. Rodney was with them, even more or less keeping up, though he was deeply involved in something he was doing with his data pad.

"… a very orderly society," Teyla was telling them, her tone clearly indicating her approval of such order. She threw John a long look over one shoulder, and John looked back with his 'politely interested' expression firmly in place. "Their technology level is low, and they are content with that. My people have long traded with them, most often for food when our own harvests were poor, but also for cloth and occasionally for metal…"

"Metal," Rodney muttered. "Hmm." But it was quiet, and only John heard him.

"Get to the part where you tell us what not to do," Ronon said, voice completely serious, but somehow resonating with laughter.

"Very well," Teyla agreed, face as serious as Ronon's voice, and yet still conveying an eyeroll. Ronon tipped his chin toward her, all blank and careful attention, and John turned away, grinning, keeping Rodney in his line of sight, just out of the corner of his eye.

The planet was in the fervent grasp of late spring, the part where the flowers were everywhere and the sun was hot-but-not-scorching, and the air held a hint of cool moisture without actually being muggy. In spite of himself, John thought, Well, it's about time we got an easy mission, and then winced.

"… believe that the age of reason begins when a child first begins to speak, and from that time on every citizen is held accountable for their actions, without exception…"

"Huh," Rodney exhaled, and John changed direction just enough to cause their paths to intersect. Rodney didn't notice. He was paying more attention to the data pad in his hands than to his forward locomotion, which made his gait uneven, almost staggering, in spite of the nearly-flat terrain.

"… almost entirely physical; law-breakers are rare, and repeat offenders almost unheard of. I must caution you all to take great care not to violate…"

"What have you got, McKay," he asked softly (not wanting to interrupt Teyla, or earn a scolding for not paying attention, because he was, sort of), falling in beside him. Rodney jumped and gave John a 'die, moron, die' look. John scratched his chin with the barrel of his P90. Rodney rolled his eyes.

"Maybe nothing," Rodney said with a little shrug, turning his attention away from John and back to the data pad cradled in one curled arm. He tapped on the surface with the fingertips of his free hand, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sunlight on the screen.

"Maybe something?" John asked.

"…simple enough to obey. Anything unusual is always conveyed to visitors immediately…"

"Maybe," Rodney agreed absently, eyes flying across the screen, fingertips slip-tapping nearly as quickly. "Go away, Colonel; your stupid hair is making muppet-shadows on my screen."

Rodney, still not paying any attention whatsoever to the ground, veered sharply enough to cross between Teyla (on point) and Ronon (on their six), falling in parallel to John and equi-distant to Ronon and Teyla. Accidental Rhombus? John wondered. He doubted it, but he couldn't actually ask, of course. Rodney would pull out one of his really very effective expressions of disdain, and then John would be tempted to smack him, or possibly start telling knock-knock jokes. That drove Rodney totally bugshit. He was actually opening his mouth to start the one with the aardvark when Teyla announced, "I believe our welcoming party approaches," and John closed his mouth reluctantly and followed her gaze toward the tree line.

The four of them changed course and drew together as one. Rodney still didn't look up from his data pad. John grimaced and decided to talk to him about it later, though not too harshly. A year ago he wouldn't have expected Rodney to take a moment to size up the situation before being sucked back into his data; the fact that John did expect it now, and was annoyed at not getting it, wasn't lost on him.

Teyla was waving at the approaching natives, three of them, and they waved back. Ronon's hand curled and uncurled restlessly around the butt of his gun, so John joined in the waving, just to be reassuring. Rodney's fingertips were tapping like hail against the screen of the data pad, and John watched, amused, as he took three steps to the right and spun in a slow circle, another step, a frown, and then another spin. A pagan dance to the deities of data, John decided, and then Rodney took three sideways steps, which brought him to John's side (disabusing him of the notion that Rodney was paying no attention at all to his surroundings), and said, "Naquadah."

There was a pause, a handful of heartbeats, while John considered. "How much," he asked, because he'd done enough research to know that for the most valuable metal in two galaxies, naquadah was weirdly ubiquitous in trace amounts.

"More than just ground soil," Rodney murmured back as the natives drew near. "I'm not finding any concentrated deposits, but the range on the data pad really isn't optimal without the Puddle Jumper's power supply to back it up; I doubt I'm getting more than a couple of miles out of it. But. More than trace amounts, definitely."

John nodded just as they all stopped in the middle of the path to say hi to the natives, feeling the topography of the mission altering in his mind, going from, 'hey, fresh fruit prevents scurvy' and 'it's nice to have friends' to 'reactors and nukes.' He tried really really hard to resist the urge to drool and daydream about the possibility of McKay getting his hands on enough naquadah to actually build them a few more Mark IIs.

"Teyla," the most obviously important of the three natives said with clear pleasure. He was wearing a kind-of-robe and a big flashy necklace that John tried not to think of as 'native bling' for fear that Teyla would hear him thinking it. He enfolded one of her hands in one of his, free hand cupping her elbow. Teyla looked equally delighted.

"Keenan, I am happy to see you," Teyla replied, and she really did seem to be, her smile wide and real, but John was still surprised when they reached for one another's shoulders simultaneously and tipped their foreheads together.

Surprised or not, he grinned, because he couldn't see how this could be a bad thing. Not just a planet Teyla was familiar with, not even just a culture (because Teyla wasn't infallible, witness the Genii), but a person, a single individual she treated as a valued friend. John let his P90 dangle against his hip by the carry strap. His good mood ratcheted up a notch. Teyla smiling like that meant safety, just like Rodney's restless litany of dissatisfaction meant safety, like Ronon's roaming gaze and steady attention meant safety. No need to worry about anyone stealing their scientist, or their gene-carrier for that matter, no need to worry about anyone turning their former runner over to the Wraith. No need… well, actually, nothing too bad ever really seemed to happen to Teyla, a fact that made John grin a little ruefully and wonder what that said about karma, at least as regarded the rest of them.

"Colonel Sheppard, this is Keenan Brahan; he is an Arbiter among his people, a position not unlike Elizabeth's. He was a good friend to my father, and to me." She beamed at John, and then at Keenan. "Keenan, Colonel Sheppard is the military leader of a team of explorers, a team that I have joined. Also with us are Doctor Rodney McKay and Ronon Dex. We come in hopes of trade, and I will admit, in hopes that the Kurnei will show these people the same friendship they have always shown the Athosians."

"We are well met, Teyla," Keenan said, and then to all of them, "You are all very welcome among us." He shook John's hand firmly, though without the elbow-fondling, for which John was fairly sure he was grateful. Keenan correctly read the 'Do Not Touch Me' body language Ronon was constantly transmitting, and didn't seem offended at merely exchanging nods.

Rodney, still enraptured by his data pad, delivered the briskest handshake known to man and a muttered, "Yes, yes, charmed."

"I hope that you will all join us at the settlement for a meal and conversation," Keenan offered, which John really hoped translated to something like, 'eat yourself stupid and bullshit a while.'

"We'd be happy to," he said, and then had to actually nudge Rodney with one elbow when he didn't start walking when everyone else did.

Keenan and Teyla did most of the talking, walking some distance ahead with both of the other natives in attendance. John amused himself by getting close enough to eavesdrop without seeming to eavesdrop. His impression of the two of them trusting one another was reinforced by the extremely abbreviated business portion of the mission, which was completed within about ten yards and went something along the lines of:

"Your new friends wish to trade?"

"Trade, yes, and alliances. They are from far away, and very much alone."

"Not alone with you as a champion, Teyla."

"I do not champion, Keenan, truly. They have no need of it. You will see."

"I believe you. What do you seek from us, materially?"

"Much as the Athosians did, I believe. Food, some cloth. I remember my father bringing home things of metal; it may be that they will wish to trade for that as well, though I do not know if it is required. Much of what they wish for is simply good will and information, and what they offer in return is often sorely needed medicines and knowledge. Technology, to those who wish it, and the understanding to use it. They trade as allies do, Keenan. For the good of both peoples."

"Ah. Well, our crops were bountiful this year, and our good will is freely given, as you know. We will help you, if we can."

John believed him, which came as a pleasant surprise. And that was it, he was pretty sure, everything settled but the details, and he wondered why they hadn't come here before now. Teyla had been providing intel on likely planets for a while now, after all, and it seemed a little weird to him. But still, it was nice to know that Teyla's good relationship with the Kurnei would make things so much easier, a foregone conclusion, as long as no one did anything outrageously stupid.

****

The settlement wasn't far, and John looked around it with interest. It wasn't Atlantis, but it was pretty, in a pastoral kind of way. There was a fountain in the center of town, and a small, crescent-shaped park-like area with benches and flowers and large, shade-giving trees. A few larger wooden structures that looked to John like public buildings -- an inn, maybe, and a general store -- surrounded the park on two sides, and set back from the public buildings on the third side, was a long, low building with only one door and no windows. The houses were a little further out, and were all in good repair, with real glass windows and unpainted exteriors.

Keenan showed them around casually, introducing them to a few people, explaining the simple barter system the settlement used, and pointing out things of local significance. It was all going very well until Rodney stopped dead in his tracks, chin coming up. He threw a glance at John, and then at Keenan, and then back to his data pad for a moment, licking at his lips, his data pad practically quivering with excitement. "What's that?" he demanded, already moving in the direction he'd pointed without taking his eyes off the data pad.

The rest of them were several steps behind when Rodney stopped next to what looked to John like a native gazebo, open to the air but roofed over as neatly as the rest of the buildings in the settlement. Rodney tapped at the data pad screen, and murmured, "Hello, hello," hunkering down to take a closer look in that way he only did when he'd found something that made him forget about native germs or straining his lower back, a swift, purposeful movement that was precise and graceful and would've probably surprised the hell out of Rodney if he could see himself doing that on video or something.

"Please, Doctor McKay, I must ask you not to touch the tablet," Keenan said, appearing beside Rodney like magic. His voice was a little tight, but he didn't move to shield the object from Rodney, didn't sound upset or angry. His tone was as even and polite as it had been from the beginning. "It is not… appropriate to handle it."

"Yes, yes," Rodney conceded, craning forward to get a better look. "But what is it?"

"We do not know," Keenan admitted, watching Rodney tap at his data pad curiously, still looking not the least bit alarmed. "It was here when we settled here, and is not a thing made by our people. We keep it as we found it, aside from the enclosure protecting it."

"Huh," Rodney said, and John came closer so that he could see what they were talking about. The object was deep enough in the shadow of the gazebo that it was difficult to make out any details, even once John was standing directly over Rodney's shoulder; from what he could see, it was flat, about the size of a pizza, and was covered with what looked like corrosion of some sort. John was pretty sure it was metal by the dull gleam that shone through in spots. "You're standing in my light, Colonel," Rodney complained, but only absently, too absorbed in what he was looking at to sound truly bitter about it.

John moved six inches to one side to let the sunlight past him, and saw… "Hey, is that Ancient?"

And bit his tongue as soon as the words left his lips.

"Rodney," Teyla said warningly, and,

"Please, Doctor McKay--" Keenan exclaimed, but too late, of course.

Rodney's fingertips were already gently, dexterously rubbing at a corner of the object until it gleamed mellowly, revealing what was definitely a half-dozen Ancient letters scored deeply into the surface.

****

"And you yell at me for touching Ancient artifacts!" John hissed, glaring at Rodney, who was glaring not-at-all-repentantly back.

"Oh, please, is something wrong with your eyes? It's not an Ancient artifact, Colonel, give me a little credit," Rodney hissed back. The four of them were in a huddle, Rodney, John, and Teyla leaning together to 'discuss the situation,' while Ronon stared warningly at the natives over their heads. Several of the natives were in a similar huddle a few feet away, and the only good thing about the situation that John could come up with was that they hadn't been tied up, shot at, or even yelled at thus far. "It's something else, not something gene-activated. The fact that it's got Ancient writing on it doesn't necessarily mean it was left by the Ancients. We aren't the only people in this galaxy that can read and write in Ancient."

"Well, what is it then?" John demanded.

"I don't know!" Rodney hissed furiously. "Somebody jerked me away from it before I could even get a look at it. Something that merits further study almost certainly, especially if it was written by the Ancients, because in case you haven't noticed, they haven't left a whole lot of hard copy littered about the place, and what they have left has a tendency to be very, very helpful!" John opened his mouth to snap back, and Rodney added, "Also, it's made of naquadah."

"It does not matter what it is," Teyla interrupted, the only one of them not hissing, or even attempting to lower her voice, and John and Rodney both turned to look at her because she sounded completely unlike herself, voice clipped and edged with something that sounded whole lot like disappointment. "It is a thing under the protection of the Kurnei, a thing you were clearly instructed not to touch, Rodney." She shook her head once, sharply. "I thought that you understood clearly the kind of culture the Kurnei have, but I think you must not if you will stand here, now, and argue about this when reparations must be made."

"Reparations," John repeated, already not liking the sound of that. "What exactly does that mean, Teyla?"

She gave him a brief, exasperated look. "You were not listening to me." She sighed. "I went to great trouble to explain how we must behave while we were among the Kurnei, and you were not listening to me."

"I was listening," John objected, working to project an air of wounded innocence while he frantically tried to remember what she'd been talking about before he'd been distracted by Rodney's distraction. "You said they were very orderly, and criminals were all but unheard of." He looked to Rodney and Ronon for help, but Rodney rolled his eyes and Ronon gave him a smile with a lot of teeth in it. "I was listening!" John objected again, but Teyla just pressed her lips together and shook her head.

"I was listening," Ronon said, and John gave him a nasty look.

Keenan and his escort -- still the same two young guys with no weapons and no military feel, which he took as a good sign -- chose that moment to break huddle and start back in their direction.

"Teyla?" John's hands curled around his P90.

"We are in no danger, Colonel," Teyla assured him softly. "The Kurnei will offer no threat. It is not their way."

And then Keenan was in front of them, and John forced himself to let go of his gun and put on a grave-yet-non-threatening expression. He didn't look angry, just solemn, and John let himself hope that things hadn't already devolved past salvaging. "We have discussed it," he told John, and gave him a nod. "Your ways are not our ways, Colonel; of this we are keenly conscious. I have requested and been granted some measure of leniency for Doctor McKay in light of that."

"Thank you, we appreciate that," John said, but he hadn't missed the carefully phrased 'some measure of leniency.' "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Minor discipline," Keenan said simply, as if that would be explanation enough. John shot Teyla a glance.

"Wait, what?" One of Rodney's hands gesticulated crazily while the other held the data pad protectively against his chest. "Minor discipline? What does that even mean?"

Teyla caught Rodney's crazy hand and forced it down, took a breath and just held it for a few seconds. "Keenan, I beg your indulgence," she said without letting go of Rodney's wrist. "I… believe I was not clear enough in explaining to my people the expectations of the Kurnei. I believe that this situation is a direct result of my failure. As the failing was mine, I should be held accountable in Doctor McKay's stead."

Keenan cocked his head, considering. "Your people, Teyla?"

"As much as the Athosians, Keenan," she agreed, chin coming up a little. "I would willingly accept responsibility for any or all of them. The fault is mine."

"Okay, just hold on now." John threw a glance at Rodney, who was being uncharacteristically silent, but Rodney was just staring at Teyla, looking a little surprised. He was behaving, however, so John let him be. "Before anyone is disciplined in anybody's stead, let's all just settle down. Let's start with the basics. Keenan, when you say minor discipline, what exactly do you mean?"

Keenan gave Teyla a brief, puzzled look, but Teyla had gone all tranquil and Zen (and John was very aware of just how much calm, methodical shit he was going to catch for this later, and couldn't even be righteously offended, because he so deserved it), so he looked back at John. "I mean it is the same kind of discipline one would require of a child, Colonel, to punish an offense that is not serious, but must be discouraged."

Rodney inhaled sharply, and then made a short, choked sort of sound, and John saw that Teyla's hand around his wrist had tightened so much that the ligaments were visible beneath the skin. "The same kind of…" John repeated, frowning a little as he tried to work out the specifics of that, and he abruptly remembered Teyla's voice in the background while he talked softly with Rodney: "The Kurnei are remarkably civilized. They believe it is in everyone's best interests that people be well-behaved, and they are expected to always be so. Any incidence of unacceptable behavior is dealt with at once, and their method of discipline is almost entirely physical; law-breakers are rare, and repeat offenders almost unheard of." And yeah, as it turned out, this was actually his fault, because McKay might have done the deed but John should have known the consequences, should have known to watch out for him. Shit. "You want to give McKay a spanking?" John made himself ask.

Keenan blinked at him, and then flushed a little unaccountably, but nodded. "It is not what we would call it, but yes, Colonel."

"Wait, what?" Rodney yelped, though it clearly wasn't a question. "You want to spank me? Are you people insane? Do you have any concept at all…"

Rodney's voice died as John turned on him. He was fully aware that he was actually far angrier at himself than he was at Rodney, but he wasn't above using that to shut Rodney the hell up. He clamped one hand around Rodney's elbow and dragged him close enough that there would be no need to raise his voice, close enough that he could feel the heat of Rodney's thigh all along the side of his own thigh; he didn't look at Rodney, just said softly, almost gently: "Stop. Talking. Now. McKay."

Rodney jerked his elbow out of John's hand, and John turned to look at him. Rodney's face tightened, and for a second John thought Rodney was actually going to do as he said, but then, yeah, how likely was that, really? "Colonel, if you think for one second…"

"If you'd think for one second, McKay, we wouldn't keep ending up in situations like this," John hissed softly, low enough that probably only Rodney and Teyla could hear him, knowing it was both unfair and untrue even as he said it. Rodney's mouth snapped shut, taut and crookedly unhappy, and he didn't even glare at John in response, just swallowed hard. John let go, feeling like a shithead but unable to actually do anything about it right at the moment. He turned back to Keenan and said the only thing he could say.

"No."

"Colonel," Teyla said, low and earnest, and John waved a hand at her to shut up.

"No. No one lays a hand on my people." John hoped it came out flatly factual, but his voice sounded both wary and a little offended even to his own ears, so he frankly doubted he'd pulled it off.

Keenan looked at John for a long moment, head cocked, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but he looked almost pleased. "Of course," was all he said, though, and either he was going to drop the whole thing, or he really did understand what John was saying, because he gave John a nod that was almost a bow, and went back to his huddle. John hoped it was the latter, because he wasn't relishing the idea of spelling it out for anyone.

And seriously, how did shit like this keep happening to him?

He didn't sigh, and turned back to his own huddle. He didn't think he was imagining Teyla's neutral-close-to-pleased expression, or the slightly more relaxed angle of her shoulders. For a moment, none of them said anything. Ronon met John's gaze without any notable weirdness, which was a relief (though not entirely unexpected; if anyone understood the 'do what you have to do' and 'when in Rome' combination philosophy, it was Ronon). Rodney was looking from John to Teyla and then back again, his expression stating clearly that he knew something was going on, he just hadn't figured out exactly what yet.

"So," Rodney said, abruptly breaking the silence, and John watched, weirdly fascinated, as a slow flush spread upward from Rodney's collar. But all he said was: "Are we going?"

Teyla gave Rodney a long look. "We may choose to, I suppose," she said, but she was as relaxed and untroubled-sounding as she ever got, which was simultaneously a relief, and really irritating. It saved John the humiliation of explaining, yeah, but it was a little irksome at how… casually she was treating the whole thing. "We may apologize and go back to the Stargate, and they will do nothing to stop us. Violence of that nature is not their way. If we choose to do so, however, we must abandon any trade we might have hoped for with the Kurnei. To them, we would seem to be faithless."

Rodney turned and gave the native gazebo protecting the mysterious naquadah slab a yearning look, but then he just turned back and nodded. "Okay, all right," he said, and it was continually amazing to John how someone so damn smart could be so completely oblivious sometimes. Seriously, John was going to kill Rodney some day. He really really was.

"We wouldn't want to be faithless," John drawled, striving for normal. He was going to do this. Damnit. He was going to do this, because maybe there was naquadah, and there was an interesting Ancient something-or-other, too, but mostly because there was definitely the possibility of real friendship here, and because he felt more than comprehended that it was important to Teyla that her friend think well of them, and because. Because it was John's fault for not paying attention, and he wasn't going to shirk the responsibility of that just because it was embarrassing.

He unslung his P-90 from over his shoulder and passed it to Teyla, then shrugged out of his vest, pack still attached, and handed the whole bundle off to Ronon. "Just how public is this going to be, Teyla?"

Rodney frowned at him; Teyla said, "Because the transgression was a minor one, and because the Kurnei are unlikely to wish to damage future dealings with us, I believe it will be done as privately as custom allows."

Which didn't really answer the question as far as John was concerned, but was reassuring anyway.

"Wait," Rodney said, watching John remove his thigh holster with something like disbelief. Then: "You are freaking kidding me!" which came out as a sort of breathless, indignant squawk (and bizarrely, it was kind of a relief to hear it; selfish or not, Rodney or not, it was nice to hear someone vocalize the weird mix of resignation and baffled mortification that John was pretending he wasn't feeling). "Colonel, you aren't seriously considering this. Allow me to once again fill the role of 'voice of reason' in this scenario: this is insane. You don't have to prove anything to anyone!"

Because he honestly tried not to say more than one really mean thing to Rodney per mission, John did not say: "Actually, I do. I have to prove that I'm a stand up guy. I have to prove that you behaving badly is not a reflection on all of Atlantis. I have to prove, by proxy, that we're willing to bend a little, because that's what friends do." Instead, he said, "Let's get this done."

Which seemed to be the magic words, because suddenly Keenan was right there, accompanied by a huge, Conan-the-Barbarian-looking native carrying a box. "Colonel, have you concluded your… discussion?" Keenan's tone was polite, but John was pretty sure he knew what kind of discussion they'd been having.

"Yeah, we're done," John asserted, and stepped away from his team. Rodney caught him by the elbow, startling the crap out of John for just a second, but he managed to turn the flinch into a slow turn of his head and an inquiringly cocked eyebrow.

"Colonel…" Rodney objected, his face tight and unhappy. He shook his head once, sharply, and then confused John completely. "Don't do this. There isn't, really, you shouldn't. I can. Don't… I'll do it."

And truly, could Rodney pick a worse time to have one of his (increasingly common) moments of bravery? "We're done talking about this, McKay." The fierce expression was weird on Rodney's face only because it didn't look out of place. It looked right at home, ferocious determination and barely sublimated fear, and for a long, bizarre second, John fought the urge to smile, because he was standing here feeling proud of McKay. "Don't, Rodney. It's gonna be fine." He registered Rodney's face, flickering through confusion and annoyance and frustration, before he turned to Keenan. "Let's go."

It didn't matter that Rodney meant it. There were certain things that John wouldn't do, couldn't do, and letting someone else physically harm a member of his team was one of them. Even here, even now, in a situation in which John was as sure as he was capable of being that it was safe, that there was no real danger, he just couldn't. It was a bad precedent to set, and considering the fact that there were hundreds, maybe thousands of populated worlds in Pegasus, it was truly bizarre how fast the galactic grapevine seemed to spin gossip. John didn't want precedents like that racing before them. John wasn't letting anyone touch his team, not for any reason. But he had to admit, it was nice to know Rodney objected.

"You do us great honor, Colonel," Keenan told him solemnly, and gave a nod to Conan, who hurried away with the box.

"I do what I have to do," John replied after a few seconds of silence that made it clear that he was expected to say something. Keenan actually smiled faintly, which probably should have pissed him off considering the circumstances, but instead it was oddly reassuring. "Not to be rude," John added, "but do you think we could get on with it?" Before Rodney's head explodes, he did not add.

"Of course," Keenan agreed. "Leovar has just gone to prepare the hall. If you and Doctor McKay would come this way?" He gestured with one hand, and John supposed he really shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. Oh, he got it, but he was surprised.

He threw a quick glance at Rodney, and it was clear that Rodney got it, too. He had his data pad clutched to his chest and he wouldn't meet John's gaze, but he didn't voice a single objection. He didn't even look like he was thinking about it. John didn't sigh. He walked in the direction Keenan was indicating, not at all surprised to see that they were walking toward the long, low building with no windows. He could hear Rodney following, and chose not to look back.

"So, this is where you guys do all your… disciplining?" John inquired, going for 'establishing a rapport with the natives by exhibiting interest in local customs' but pretty sure he was only succeeding at 'mildly anxious babbling.'

"Not at all," Keenan replied easily. "Most discipline is done publicly." He gave John a sideways look that said he knew John knew why, and John did, of course. "The hall is used only in exceptional circumstances."

Behind them, Rodney snorted, but didn't comment.

"I don't guess you'd be willing to decide that a sincere apology would do the trick, considering the 'exceptional circumstances?'" John offered, not thinking for a second that it would work, but willing to try anyway.

Keenan's lips quirked, and unexpectedly, he said, "I like you very much, Colonel. I hope that our people will be good friends."

He opened the door to the hall and went inside, not pausing to be sure that John and Rodney followed. John blinked and followed him in.

The inside of the hall wasn't what John expected. Not that John had had anything specific in mind, really. Just something a little more torture-y, maybe. Instead, it was a single, long room lit by what looked like oil lamps (but weren't, he was sure, and even as he thought it, he could hear Rodney tapping at his data pad, and had to fight back a completely inappropriate smile - again) and a fireplace, which was warm and, with the fairly low ceiling and unstained wood walls, might have even seemed cozy under other circumstances. The end of the room near the door had a low, some-kind-of-leather covered couch bedecked with pillows, and three large, comfortable looking chairs situated around a coffee-type table which rested on a rug in vibrant geometric patterns. The walls were hung with soothingly-neutral tapestries depicting landscapes, and a low table ran the entire length of the back wall.

The far end of the room was occupied by only a single piece of furniture, which looked a lot like a kinky sex bench from where John was standing.

Of course, he thought, not quite able to swing amused but not actually alarmed, either. Because if spanking was something you did on a fairly regular basis, obviously you needed something better than laps to do it over. Which was good, John told himself. He didn't want to become any more closely acquainted with Conan's lap then he was right now.

"Naquadah," Rodney muttered, waggling his data pad at one of the lamps, not quite a question and not quite directed at Keenan, who nodded anyway.

"A minor technology," he said, and shrugged out of the robe-like outer garment he was wearing, probably in deference to the heat of the room. He handed it to Conan, who hung it on a hook on the wall. "Crushed ore mixed with certain chemicals will burn clean and bright for some time. We will show you, if you like." After, was unspoken, but implied.

"Yes, yeah, that would be," Rodney murmured, apparently not catching the implied after, already putting his data pad down next to a lamp and tipping his head to one side to study it, hand hovering near to gauge the heat output.

Keenan followed Rodney with his eyes, then looked at John, both eyebrows arched and clearly bemused. John shrugged helplessly. "Later, Rodney."

"Oh, yes. Right. I'll just." He backed away from the lamp, still tapping at his data pad's screen one-handed.

"It's not going anywhere, Rodney," John said, sighing. "Can we just do this, please?"

Rodney glared briefly, but with nothing like the usual degree of exasperating arrogance, and walked back to John and then commenced to just stand there, silent and waiting. John had fully expected him to say at least something cutting, probably directed at John rather than Keenan, because Rodney was sometimes an asshole, but one of the things you rarely had to worry about was Rodney making the same mistake twice.

John gave him a long look. Quiet-Rodney was starting to freak him out a little.

Keenan gestured to the furnished area, not smiling, and John noticed that the table in the center of the grouping had a tea service set up.

"We're having tea?" Rodney's voice was almost without inflection, a tone that only happened when Rodney was so surprised that he hadn't yet formed an opinion on whether or not whatever caused his surprise was idiotic.

"It is customary," Keenan agreed, and gestured again, without any appearance of being in a hurry. John shrugged mentally, and settled himself into one of the chairs, which was fully as soft as appearances had suggested. Keenan and Conan settled themselves on the couch, and Rodney perched on the edge of one of the other chairs, data pad clutched in both hands. "There are things we must discuss before we begin; things you must know before you make the decision to continue with this. I hope that you will have patience with me. The things I must tell you are things that my people learn over the course of years, things that I'm not often called to impart in this manner."

"And while we do this, we're having tea?" Rodney asked, only the tiniest bit sardonic.

"No, Doctor McKay. The tea will come later, when you understand what it is you're offering to drink." Keenan's expression was arch, still with that faint air of amusement. "Please. I have asked for your patience, and have done nothing to merit a refusal in this. You are a man who seeks for answers, for understanding. Do me the honor of allowing me to offer you some."

"Yes, yes, I was only asking. There isn't any citrus in that, is there?"

Keenan sighed, lips quirking, and John realized (frankly surprised) that Keenan liked Rodney. "This tea is called eilisi and is brewed from the leaves of the eilisis. It provides the drinker with improved memory for a short time."

For the first time, Rodney looked more interested than irritated. "How much improved?" he asked, leaning forward curiously, data pad dangling between his knees.

"Perfect memory, for a period of perhaps half an hour. The time depends on the quantity consumed and the strength of the draught."

"Perfect, really, or perfect according to the ancient stories of your people?" Rodney wanted to know, and John winced a little at how much dubious arrogance Rodney managed to infuse into the sentence, but Keenan didn't seem bothered.

"Truly perfect, Doctor McKay, but there is no need to take my word for it. You will see for yourself." He gestured to the tea service. "It's traditional for the penitent to serve all parties involved. If you would be so kind, Doctor?"

Rodney looked like he had more questions (when did Rodney not have more questions), but John murmured, "Just pour the tea, Rodney." There'd be plenty of time to interrogate the natives about tea and naquadah later.

Rodney shot him a narrow look, and huffed impatiently. He was probably the least penitent penitent in the history of ever, John was willing to bet, but Keenan was still looking amused by Rodney, his eyes a little crinkled from smiling, so John didn't mention it.

"I was serious about the citrus thing," Rodney insisted, and leaned his data pad against the leg of his chair to pour. Once everyone had a cup of tea, Rodney lifted his cup to his nose to sniff suspiciously at it. "Because I'm deathly allergic to citrus, and I know you're not very happy with me just now, but I really don't think poisoning me is the answer."

John rolled his eyes. "Rodney…"

"There is nothing but tea in it, Doctor McKay," Keenan assured, giving Rodney a look that seemed oddly indulgent to John. "The eilisis is not a fruiting plant at all. The blossoms are brewed into this tea, eilisi; when you return, you'll be offered tea brewed from the leaves, eilisum, which will offer relief from that which you remember."

"Is that… a ritual or something?" John wondered, and sniffed at his own tea. It smelled grassy and a little sweet. It actually smelled pretty good. He'd have tried it then, in spite of the fact that it was steaming energetically, except Keenan had specifically said there were things he wanted to tell them before they decided to continue, so he put his cup back on the table.

Keenan frowned thoughtfully. "No. No, not a ritual, Colonel." He gave a self-deprecating little laugh. "I'm trying to think how to tell this." He gave Rodney a wry glance. Rodney was eyeballing his tea. "Quickly," he added, and smiled at John. "So. My people believe that humans have two minds, and that discipline must reach each part of the mind in order for it to be effective. Do you understand this?" He looked hopeful.

"Er," John said. "No?"

Rodney snorted. "He's talking about the intellect and the lizard-brain, moron." Then, presumably for Keenan's benefit, he added, "The intellect being the part of the brain that allows for rational thought, and the lizard brain being the part of the brain that governs instinct and aggression."

"Yes," Keenan beamed. "Precisely, Doctor McKay. That part of your mind that you use to think and the part of your mind that reacts as an animal reacts. We believe that both must be reached, must be affected, in order for any sort of discipline to be useful. This is why we drink eilisi tea before discipline, so that it is indelibly engraved in the mind. It is helpful to both, I believe, but the object is to infuse the memory in the part of the mind that does not think, that merely reacts."

"Behavioral conditioning," Rodney muttered darkly.

Keenan shrugged. "We believe… I believe that in many, perhaps even most cases, improper behavior stems from acting without thought, acting from that part of the mind that does not think. If that part associates pain and embarrassment with improper behavior, such behavior is less likely to occur without deliberation. It is in the nature of people to forget pain as soon as it is over. Perhaps it is a survival mechanism. We drink the tea - both those who are disciplined and those who perform the disciplining - so as to remember the pain. For the same reason, our women drink eilisi tea during childbirth. Do you see?"

John did see, and yeah, Rodney was more or less right. It was behavioral conditioning, but it didn't necessarily seem like a big deal to John, just because of that. It seemed no more harmful than John's knee-jerk desire to open a door for a lady or salute someone with stars on their collar. It wasn't like he couldn't resist either urge, if circumstances demanded it. "I see," John said, and Rodney hmphed but didn't disagree.

Keenan nodded. "I tell you this so you will understand, but truly you won't understand until you've experienced it." He smiled sadly, and shook his head. "Perhaps that, too, is a survival mechanism. There are many things people would not risk if they truly understood the consequences, and some things must be done regardless of the risk."

"Like childbirth," Rodney said pointedly, but Keenan just nodded.

"Precisely. Some women choose never to bear again, with the memory of it always present in their minds. Most, however, choose to drink eilisum, and release the memory. A few keep the memories, and choose to bear again anyhow. But all are allowed to choose. What is worthy of the pain for one woman may not be worthy for her sister. All are allowed to choose."

He gave John a long look. "You are an honorable man, Colonel, and I already know you will do this, for many reasons. I am curious to know if you will find the experience to be worthy of the pain. If you find that it is not, then I will brew the eilisum for you myself."

"This eilisum, when you say 'release the memory' do you mean completely, or is it merely the… antidote for the eilisi, so the memory is still there, but no longer as a 'perfect' memory?" Rodney asked, appearing genuinely interested.

"The memory becomes as any other memory, Doctor McKay, which is to say that it will remain bright in the mind only for a few days or weeks, and then will dull in both detail and significance, over time."

Rodney nodded thoughtfully.

Keenan leaned forward and picked up his cup, which was only steaming gently now. "If you are ready, then?" he asked, and tipped the cup to his lips.

John picked up his own cup, aware of Rodney watching him and waiting for the okay from John before he drank. The tea was mild-tasting, more like green tea than English tea, though it was faintly sweet. It was good. John wasn't a tea kind of guy, mostly, but this was more palatable than most ritual native beverages, and he gave Rodney a little nod.

Rodney took a cautious sip, and then a deeper one. "All right," he muttered absently, "Good, okay. It won't ever replace coffee, I suppose, but it's exponentially better than some of the ritual 'teas' we've had to drink."

"So," John said, taking another swallow of his own tea. "It's obvious why we're drinking the total recall tea, but why do you guys need to drink it?"

"Can you truly think of no reason why it would be necessary for an Arbiter to remember exactly what is about to transpire, Colonel?" Keenan asked, raising one brow in a way that clearly indicated that he didn't believe it, but he didn't wait for John to reply. "All who are involved must remember; all must understand the consequences of what they choose to do."

It would be, John was sure, a pretty effective deterrent. If you could remember every second as clearly as Keenan seemed to think you could, you could never pretend that you hadn't known what would happen, even to yourself. If you could remember every second of delivering every punishment you'd ever delivered, he was betting you'd eventually be pretty proficient at every aspect. Maybe that kept it from going too far. He wondered how Arbiters were chosen.

"Do you ever trade this tea?" Rodney asked, gazing thoughtfully into his cup. He looked calm, maybe a little introspective, but John could almost see his brain hurtling along, compiling all the ways it would be useful to be able to remember everything that happened over a set period of time.

Keenan actually looked a little startled at the question. "No, it is not something we've ever traded."

"Is it, are you opposed to trading it for, for--" Rodney waved a hand, "religious reasons, or whatever?"

"No, not opposed." He gave John a long look, and then gave Rodney a slightly briefer one. "We haven't been asked within living memory. Those from beyond the Ring that become familiar with its use do so just as you are about to. Many of those do not return to Kurn. Most of them we would not consider trading eilisi with in any event. It is valuable to my people, of course, but it is not something others seek out. And why would they?"

Rodney looked at Keenan for a few seconds, and then arched one brow. "You can't think of any reason why it would be useful to someone who wasn't about to participate in corporal punishment to be able to remember things perfectly?"

"Rodney," John said warningly, though he had to admit that, for Rodney, the sarcasm had been fairly low-key.

"No, Colonel, Doctor McKay is right," Keenan interrupted quickly, presumably before John could berate Rodney. "It is a good thing to be reminded to look beyond one's own narrow views." He gave Rodney a deep nod. "I can think of many reasons, Doctor McKay. But how many of those reasons are worthy?"

"Yes, well," Rodney said a little stiffly. "Worthy is an entirely relative term."

He considered Rodney gravely. "When you return, if you wish to offer something in trade for the eilisi, then we will discuss it, Doctor."

John thought Keenan looked dubious.

They lapsed into a somewhat-uncomfortable silence as they finished their tea. Conan still hadn't uttered a single syllable (John was trying not to find his silent-threat thing either irritating or ominous), and Rodney kept shooting sideways glances at John, and then not saying anything, which was weird enough that John avoided thinking about it. He was already keyed-up with the promise of pain, adrenaline flowing liberally; now was not the time to try to decipher Rodney's motives.

Keenan might have been meditating with his eyes open. He looked completely serene, at least until he rose to his feet in a quick, fluid motion. Rodney flinched broadly in a way that would've left John dripping with tea, if Rodney's cup hadn't been the first one empty.

John stood, too, and it occurred to him to ask, "The effects of the tea, are they going to…" knock me on my ass, send me to the moon, cause me to have a snack attack in the middle of my spanking?

"You will not notice the effects until later, Colonel. At first the memory will be so fresh it will seem normal, just as anything else that just happened to you might. In a few hours, or perhaps in the morning, you will begin to understand what it means to have a perfect memory of the next few minutes." He gave John a long, intent look. "I will not pretend that it will not be… unsettling for you, but you will be in no danger, Colonel. You will become accustomed to it, as people do. Within a handful of days, you will have an understanding of what it means to carry it with you, always. If you decide not to keep it, you must drink the eilisum within a handful of days. Any longer and your mind may choose not to let it go."

"Great," John muttered, and ignored Rodney stealing another sideways peek at him. "Let's rock and roll."

Keenan smiled gently, and walked to the other end of the room; John followed, since it'd be pointless to balk now. The bench looked even more like a kinky sex apparatus up close, and Keenan gave John plenty of time to look it over. John eyed it for several seconds obligingly, and just nodded. Out of context, he guessed it might have been a little weird-looking, but considering the situation, he didn't have any questions.

Rodney, standing beside him, either didn't have any questions or was unwilling to ask them. He just looked at it, two bright spots of color burning on his cheeks while the rest of his face, especially around his eyes and mouth, showed nothing but strained apprehension. John couldn't think of anything to say that might reassure him, so he didn't say anything.

Keenan rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the table against the wall, where the box Conan had been carrying earlier was sitting. He opened the box and said, without looking, "To begin, the penitent is stripped, Colonel." Even as he said it, Conan started toward John.

John took a step back without thinking, and, crazily, Rodney stepped in front of him. He did it just as if it was something that happened every day, without hesitation, and (if John ignored the fact that the situation probably didn't call for it) he couldn't help a sharp swell of pride, even though he could feel his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline in surprise at the same time. But he just told Conan, "I think I can manage this part without help, big fella."

Conan hesitated, looking to Keenan, who had turned around holding what was unmistakably a big fucking paddle (John groped for another term for several seconds before deciding there just wasn't anything else to call it); Keenan frowned.

Damnit, John thought, because he could see the why behind every part of this process, including the part where someone else stripped him, and he'd essentially already agreed to this, the whole enchilada, but he honestly wasn't sure he was going to be able to stand still and let some strange guy strip him.

Rodney, he saw, was gripping his data pad in both hands, but holding it awkwardly off to one side, and John realized that Rodney was seriously considering using the delicate equipment to defend John's honor. The whole situation was just too surreal. John kind of wanted to sit down.

"Easy, McKay," he said instead, and put a careful hand on Rodney's shoulder, pulling him backward so that he was beside John again. "It's okay."

Rodney turned to look at him with frantic eyes, and snapped, "This, Colonel, is so far from okay that I can't even see okay from here." He poked John in the upper arm with a vicious forefinger. "Why do you have to be naked?" John frowned a little, taken aback by Rodney's abrupt descent into near-panic, not quite able to figure out what had triggered it, since Rodney had seemed more or less okay sixty seconds ago. He didn't have time to consider it, however.

"Please, Colonel, Doctor McKay," Keenan said with a placating gesture that was miles less effective while he was holding the paddle he was planning on hitting John with. "I do not understand your objection." Rodney hissed a little, and John tightened his hand on Rodney's shoulder, though not enough to hurt him.

He believed that Keenan didn't get it; his expression was openly baffled. John had no idea how to explain it, either. "I don't know how to explain it to you," John admitted, choosing honesty mostly because there didn't seem to be anything to lose by it. "But I have to tell you, if your guy comes over here pawing at my clothes, there's a pretty good chance that I'm going to end up breaking both his arms."

Conan flexed in response, looking interested, and John tensed, rising to the balls of his feet. Keenan just nodded, as if that sounded perfectly reasonable to him, though his brows were still drawn together in perplexity.

"We have," Rodney said hoarsely, but calmly, "some fairly deeply ingrained feelings about strangers forcibly undressing us, Arbiter." The fact that Rodney not only remembered Keenan's title, but was addressing him by it, made John distinctly uneasy.

"I can undress myself," John added.

"I see," Keenan said slowly, clearly not seeing at all. "It is that Leovar is a stranger to you that makes this… objectionable?"

"Yeah," John said, and raised his fingers to the buttons of his BDU shirt, but Keenan shook his head quickly, holding up a hand to stop him.

"Our ways have significance, Colonel," he said, looking pained. "I think that you know this." He gave John a long look, and John didn't deny it, thinking of basic training and of Academy hazing and of what it felt like to be rendered helpless, why it was psychologically a big deal. "I do not understand your ways, your… hesitance, but I accept that it is something you feel strongly about. May we… compromise on this matter?"

His gaze shifted to Rodney.

"No," Rodney objected, and gave John a brief, panicky look before turning back to Keenan. "No, no, no, absolutely not, I am not… will not… It's, it's completely inappropriate, he's my team leader, and there are rules about, about. No. It's out of the question."

"Yes," John said, and braced himself for Rodney's reaction. But there was no reaction from Rodney. He didn't move, didn't object, didn't even turn to glare icy death at John. "McKay," John said evenly, ignoring the flutter of apprehension in his belly. When Rodney didn't acknowledge him, he tried, "Rodney."

Rodney shot John a truly virulent look, and John relaxed into amusement. If Rodney could try and melt John's face off with the power of his furious gaze, then he probably wasn't close to a panic attack. "Jeez, McKay, it's not like I'm asking you to shave my ass, here. Just come take my damn clothes off."

Rodney's eyes widened, fleeting surprise like a beacon, then disbelief, which lasted somewhat longer while John thought, Wait for it, come on, Rodney, and then Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake, Colonel," Rodney snapped, closing the distance between them with three quick steps, face folded into familiar angles, Rodney's I can't believe I'm wasting my superior intellect on this idiocy look. John didn't smirk, somehow, but actually had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from pointing out that compared to a minute ago, when Rodney had been ready to perpetrate bodily assault on Conan the Barbarian with a tablet computer, a little wardrobe help seemed like a pretty reasonable favor.

"This could only happen on an off-world mission with you, Sheppard," Rodney spat disgustedly, and bent to put his data pad on the floor. Then Rodney was in his face, blunt fingertips vindictively stabbing the buttons on John's BDU shirt through their holes. "You'll never read a mission report from Lorne's team that involves the scientist undressing the team leader as a precursor to ritual spanking." John thought it probably wasn't the best time to point out to Rodney that it wasn't 'ritual' spanking, really. Rodney paused to jerk John's shirttail out of his pants so he could reach the last button, then dragged the shirt off John's shoulders in a motion that could best be described as 'ripping,' only to have it stopped abruptly and a little painfully at John's wrists because Rodney had neglected to unbutton the cuffs. "You're lucky I don't put in for a transfer!" Rodney muttered, his fingers brusque and businesslike on John's belt, followed immediately by the button of John's BDU pants.

"Uh, Rodney?" John tried, but apparently there was some kind of momentum at work, because Rodney didn't seem to notice.

"I'm sure any number of 'gate teams would be thrilled to have me as an addition," Rodney muttered, "considering that my already-extensive off-world experience alone would be an undeniable asset, and, of course, I'm a genius." He unzipped John's fly, and then immediately hooked his thumbs in the waist of John's pants at either hip and shoved them down, where they bunched around his ankles. On top of his boots.

John said nothing.

He just stood there in his baby blue boxer shorts with his pants trapped around his ankles and his shirt hanging from both wrists and looked at Rodney.

"Oh," Rodney said anxiously, his eyes everywhere. "Um."

"Yeah," John agreed, going for blisteringly sarcastic and hitting, if he did say so himself, right on the mark. Over by the bench, arms crossed under his manfully bulging pecs, Conan the Barbarian looked alarmingly close to cracking a smile. John wondered if maybe he should have kept his mouth shut and let Conan undress him. Keenan didn't seem even close to smiling, but his eyes held a suspiciously Teyla-like twinkle. "Jesus, McKay, aren't you supposed to be a genius?"

"Oh, shut up," Rodney snapped, and sank to his knees at John's feet.

Which, yeah. Pretty effectively shut John up. He couldn't even tell if he was more horrified or amused, because he was naked and McKay was on his knees.

It didn't shut Rodney up, however. He scrabbled energetically at John's bootlaces, while muttering, "Oh, this is just typical, really, the foremost mind in the galaxy press-ganged into service as an Air Force valet prior to being an unwilling spectator to your ordinary, everyday corporal punishment three million light years from the nearest kink bar." And then, "Lift, please, yes, thank you very much," as he tugged off John's right boot and sock.

John just watched, bemused, as Rodney worked the knots out of the laces of John's left boot -- "I don't seriously have to instruct you twice, Colonel, Christ, thank you!" -- and then repeated the foot lifting to get his pants off. Then Rodney bounced to his feet and neatly folded John's pants -- no mean feat with all the crap John tended to keep in his thigh pockets -- and, after a few seconds of holding John's pants uncertainly against his chest, walked over and put them on the table.

John saw the exact moment Rodney ran out of steam. He turned away from the table and took an uncertain step back in John's direction, faltered, and was abruptly just standing there, staring wide-eyed at John. Not just staring, either, but actually looking, starting at John's bare feet and traveling all the way up to John's face. From anyone else, it probably would have been too fast to be considered a once-over, but Rodney was fast, he did everything at breakneck speeds, and John knew that. He couldn't mistake it for anything else.

He was irritated to find himself suddenly flushed and self-conscious, only slightly comforted by the fact that Rodney was visibly as flustered as he was.

"Jesus, Sheppard," he said uncertainly, and rubbed one hand over his face. "This is the kind of break between rational thought and action that precedes things like PTSD and schizophrenia." And because it was Rodney, it came out sounding like an accusation.

Oh yeah, undressing me will leave you scarred for life; all my exes say so, John didn't say, perversely insulted. He flapped his shirt-trapped hands at his sides, instead. "Can you get these?"

"Oh, yes, yes of course," Rodney agreed, looking like he'd only just noticed the shirt-bondage, which made John want to choke him just a little. He did take the three more steps required to bend and unbutton John's cuffs -- albeit in totally uncharacteristic silence, which just made the weird intimacy of the situation exponentially weirder, since there was no Rodney-babble to distract John from the fact that he could feel Rodney's hot breath puffing against his naked skin -- and peel the shirt off his arms. Rodney folded it carefully and took it over to the table to sit neatly on top of John's pants. "But I'm sure this violates several directives in the appropriate workplace behavior workshops I had to attend in Siberia," he added seriously, voice only a little wobbly.

"No kidding," John agreed, not really that surprised to find his voice wasn't exactly having its steadiest day either. In a just universe, John reflected, he would never have to utter the words 'Doctor McKay, come take off my underpants,' in any combination. In this universe, however, it was looking pretty likely, as Rodney seemed to be stuck three feet away, one hip wedged against the edge of the table as though it was blocking his retreat, hands fisting and unfisting repeatedly at his sides, eyes anywhere but on John.

"Rodney," John began, resigned, but Rodney held up an imperious finger, chin angling up, and actually looked at John, gaze carefully above the neck.

"Just… Just do us both a favor, Colonel, and don't say it," he bit out. "If you do, every time I look at you for the rest of my -- in all probability, very short -- life, I'm going to hear it in my head, and I'm reasonably certain neither of us wants that."

"Okay, Rodney," John said soothingly, because he was pretty good at body language in general, and even better at Rodney's body language in particular, and everything about the way Rodney was holding himself, the cocked chin, clenched fists, squared shoulders, even the crooked-tight line of his mouth, said very clearly that Rodney was holding on to his composure with both hands, and John was willing to do whatever he could do to help Rodney do that. The alternative, most likely, was Rodney making a mad dash for the door, and he was pretty sure even a guy as laid back as Keenan was demonstrating himself to be would take that as an insult.

"I can't believe this is even happening," Rodney muttered resentfully, and then, without actually looking at John at all, walked over to him.

Rodney McKay was not a coward, which John had known almost from the very beginning. He was prickly, prone to exaggeration, arrogant as all hell, and so bad with people that it was almost painful, but he wasn't a coward. Even without the truly stunning examples of bravery in his repertoire (which were getting more extensive all the time), Rodney was brave. John had never met anyone as full of fear as Rodney, had never known anyone so certain that he couldn't trust anyone or anything but his own mind. John got that Rodney was brave every day, just going through the 'gate at all, eating with natives and trusting the food, knowing that he wasn't good in a fight, but fighting anyway, knowing every day when he woke up that no one could really see things the way he could, that communication with other people would always be unsatisfying and inelegant, less than what it should be, knowing that too much of the time his brain was the only thing between Atlantis and extinction.

So John wasn't surprised at all, even as he was surprised, almost shocked, that Rodney didn't even hesitate. He slid two fingers into either side of John's boxers and slid them down John's legs, not hurriedly or frantically, but carefully, so as not to catch on anything tender, and then followed them down so John could step out of them without falling on his ass or having to get a bit of cloth under a foot to disentangle them from around his ankles.

Like it was nothing at all to do that, even after he'd been pitching a fit the whole time about things that were nowhere near as intimate, and John was irritated, but he was also distracted by the fact that for about two seconds he could feel Rodney's breath puffing warmly against parts of himself that had no business knowing what that felt like. John felt himself twitch in response, and was torn between being surreally amused or surreally horrified, either of which was just fucked up. He thought Wraith Wraith Wraith, taking a hurried step backward as Rodney lunged to his feet, John's boxers clutched to his chest.

John had to fight back a titter. Rodney was breathing hard, and John probably wasn't the only one that was all too aware of how close Rodney's face had been to his crotch, but Rodney didn't do anything worse than breathe harshly and unsteadily for a couple of seconds. Then he took John's boxers over and dropped them on top of the rest of John's clothes.

Rodney stood there for several seconds, his back to John, shoulders curled into a pained hunch, and John couldn't think of a damn thing to say. They didn't exactly cover this at the Academy. He turned his attention deliberately away from Rodney, and arched both brows at Keenan, aware that his expression bordered on belligerent -- he could feel a muscle jumping in his jaw -- but unable to coax it into anything less edged. Keenan looked sympathetic; this time it didn't soothe John at all. As though he sensed it, Keenan merely gestured John toward the bench.

If he wasn't going to just say to hell with this and leave -- and they'd already established that he wasn't -- there was nothing else to do at this point, so John walked over to it and arranged himself on in it the only way that would work. He was intensely aware of the fact that several people, one of them Rodney, were watching his every move, and took steps to distract himself with details. The bench was plain wood, and didn't look particularly comfortable, though it was smooth all over, the corners all rounded and gentle. He jammed his knees into the bend that was clearly meant for knees, and bent over the L of the surface, hipbones pressed against the join, but not uncomfortably so. His chest rested on the slightly higher incline, and his arms dangled stupidly on either side. There was even a padded place to rest his chin, which inexplicably made John want to snarl. Some other padding would have been nice, but not very practical, he guessed. At least the lack of padding made it likely that the bench was clean, since his cock was squashed between the smooth wood and his own skin, and thinking of how many cocks before his had been resting in just that place didn't thrill him.

"Tell me you people sanitize that thing between uses," Rodney demanded from somewhere behind John, his voice a little hoarse and more than usually agitated, but not so much so as to alarm John. Rodney's voice echoing John's thoughts actually made him almost smile. He turned his head to get Rodney into his field of vision, because he was already nervous enough about not being able to see Keenan, also somewhere behind him. As if he sensed John's unease, Rodney moved around to one side of the bench, where John could keep an eye on him easily. John smirked at him; Rodney scowled back.

Something tight in John's belly loosened somewhat. He didn't pretend he wasn't comforted just by Rodney being Rodney, but he also wasn't keen on looking too closely at it. Maybe later. With less nudity.

Keenan assured them that the bench was carefully tended to, which John tried to pretend actually meant there was some kind of disinfectant involved even though he knew from bitter experience that it could have easily meant that goat urine was lovingly rubbed into the silky-smooth surface each full moon. He was trying very hard not to be freaked out; he could see Rodney doing the same thing, his chin tilted, looking determinedly away from John and toward the cozy tea-nook end of the room. He was in no real danger, he told himself; he trusted Keenan. He was pretty sure this was going to hurt, yeah, but he was equally sure he wasn't going to be hurt, so it was pointless to get worked up about it.

But he was. He could hear himself breathing, short and sharp. His palms were sweating. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat and hear it in his ears. He stretched his fingertips to see if he could brace himself against the floor, but they barely reached, so he shifted, hoping to find a position that was marginally more comfortable before the actual hitting began.

"Please be easy, Colonel," Keenan murmured from somewhere far too close-by, making John jerk, startled. "Directly beneath your chin, a hands-width above the floor, there is a place to grip."

John was pretty sure that Keenan's solemn and helpful dignity was no more patronizing than it had been before, which was to say not at all, and that the burst of irritation he felt was purely situational. It didn't help much. He groped for the grip anyway, finding a round, smooth bar which probably ran between the sturdy front legs of the apparatus. There was something leathery attached to either end, according to John's questing fingertips.

He realized what they were at the same time that Rodney said, "Sheppard," tensely unhappy, his gaze now focused on John's hands. "Straps," Rodney added, unnecessarily, though John appreciated the warning anyhow.

Rodney's face helped him get a grip. It was a look John had seen too many times, a kind of unhappy resignation. Never when they were running for their lives, though. Never when Rodney had minutes to pull something out of his ass or they were all going to die. Never when the shooting was actually happening. Afterward, sometimes when they were stuck in the infirmary. When they were being held prisoner, something that happened all too frequently. The look that meant that Rodney knew it was going to be bad, and there wasn't shit he could do about it.

"It's okay, McKay. They aren't going to use them." Which John had extrapolated by the fact that neither Keenan nor Conan had made any move to do so. This is not a big deal, he thought at Rodney, but Rodney just turned his eyes back to the other end of the room.

"Colonel Sheppard does not require them," Conan said, the first time he'd spoken as far as John could recall. "He is trustworthy."

Rodney just pressed his lips together and tapped his data pad against his thigh, as though impatient.

"Can we do this sometime today," John grated out, unaware that he was at the end of his patience until the words were already out. Then, to his horror, he heard himself add, "My feet are getting kinda cold here."

He wondered if that was what it felt like to be Rodney, and shut his mouth firmly.

It occurred to him that this might be the weirdest fucking thing that had ever happened to him, and that was including turning into a bug. He waited expectantly, trying not to tense up because he wasn't sure how much this was going to hurt, and he'd just as soon not appear overly worried about it at this stage in the proceedings.

Three seconds passed, then five, and he was about to say something pointed (okay, something else pointed) when Keenan very gently said, "You must look this way, Doctor McKay."

"No, I really don't think I must," Rodney disagreed, sneering sharp and brittle, and it was the first inkling -- prickling needle-sharp at the small of his naked back, between his shoulder blades, and, oddly, along the soles of his bare feet -- John had that they might have a real problem here. The sneer didn't pack much of a wallop with Rodney's eyes closed and his chin tucked almost into his chest, at least not in terms of blistering several layers of skin off of the intended target of said sneer, but it was effective enough in the way that sent John's heart rate through the roof and jolted all his muscles into readiness, hurtling him abruptly and unexpectedly into fight-or-flight mode.

Conan, who had been standing about three feet in front of John, took a step in Rodney's direction, and John's brain went still and bright.

"Don't," he said, and something in his voice must have drawn Conan's attention, because he stopped. I will kill you, John somehow managed not to say, but the way Conan was looking at him made John think he'd heard it anyway.

"Leovar," Keenan said softly, and Conan raised both hands in John's direction, and took a step back.

"Let's all just settle down," John said, but he didn't sound calm even to himself; he sounded tightly furious, and Rodney was staring at him like he didn't know him. John didn't say anything for a few seconds, and part of his brain was still going, wait, what? because he wasn't sure exactly what just happened. He knew, yeah, but he didn't understand. But he chose to ignore it, for now, because he was still fighting the urge to threaten Conan as well as berate Rodney (because, Christ, this was his fucking discipline, not John's, and he knew Rodney knew that, so how could he not get that he was going to have to just suck it up and watch), both of which would be ultimately useless. He ignored Conan, and focused on Rodney instead. "You have to watch."

"Colonel…"

"Shut up, McKay. Try to pay attention. This is your punishment. Don't even try to make me believe you don't get that. So just shut up and watch." Rodney's face underwent a series of unhappy emotions, none of which John particularly wanted to see, and he thought it was pretty unfair that a mission that had started out so promising kept veering determinedly toward potential disaster every eight minutes or so before sidling unwillingly back to something salvageable (albeit humiliating and frustrating, so far). Rodney's face had settled on that look John hated so much, resigned and hopeless, and John equally hated the fact that he could feel so goddamned bad for Rodney even though this was his fault to begin with. "Damnit, Rodney," he sighed. "When was the last time you ate?"

"The last time I. Wait. What?" Rodney's forehead went scrunched and his eyes widened, and not for the first time, John was grateful that Rodney was exceedingly distractible.

"Food, Rodney," John snapped impatiently. "You're freaking out on me here. Are you going to 'pass out' from 'manly hunger'?"

Rodney spent about two seconds looking baffled while John watched the idea circle in his brain, and then he grabbed onto it with both metaphorical hands like an equally metaphorical life preserver. "Of course, yes, it's been hours, I, yes. Let's--" He flicked his fingers dismissively in John's general direction, and John pretended that he didn't know that Rodney was way too smart not to know that John had just played him. "Obviously I'm in the grips of a hypoglycemic attack, and am not thinking clearly," Rodney said steadily, but he was looking at John, and clearly intended to continue doing so. "I need food. Get on with it."

Seriously. The weirdest. Thing. Ever.

A second later, he forgot even the faintest urge to roll his eyes, because Ow! Christ! and "Shit!" he announced, and curled his hands so tightly around the wood in his hands that it creaked alarmingly. Rodney's eyes went huge and round and he actually swayed in John's direction for a second. This was undoubtedly the worst time ever to be pondering again just how much Rodney had changed since the first time he'd gone through the Stargate, but John wasn't interested in reigning in whatever distractions his brain was capable of clinging to right at the moment. "Surprised me," John managed to gasp out, and then Keenan hit him again, and John bit down firmly on more profanity and locked his jaw, thinking, Jesus, holy crap, at the utterly unexpectedly enormous amount that it hurt.

He was too aware of Rodney staring at him to let himself shout, which was what he wanted to do at every blow -- pain and indignation for the first half a dozen, and then just pain because it hurt too much to bother with indignation. He fixed his eyes unseeingly ahead and just rode it out, focusing on whatever he could find as a barrier to the pain, which, thank God, was something he knew how to do, something he'd had to do before. His feet were no longer cold, at least. His hands were slick around the wooden grip, and he was sweating freely. His jaw ached with tension, and his ass fucking hurt.

Deliberately, he spent a few seconds cataloging things that hurt more than this: being shot, being stabbed, a broken leg, a broken nose, that time when he was seven that he'd fallen on the concrete outside a Stucky's near Oklahoma City and jammed one of his front teeth halfway back up into his gums. Tear gas. Sumner. Ford.

He decided that wasn't helping and concentrated instead on what he could do to alleviate some of his present discomfort. His knees ached a little, as did his shoulders, but both were negligible really, which was good since there wasn't much he could do about either of them. His hipbones slammed into the bend of the bench every time the paddle made contact with his ass, however, and he figured he could pull his hips back a little in anticipation of each blow, try to get a little distance and hopefully lessen the impact, which turned out to work pretty well, though it forced out puffing little breaths every time Keenan's paddle landed as his belly came in forceful contact with the bench. He was definitely going to have bruises tomorrow, and not just on his ass.

He could see Rodney at the edge of his field of vision, though he was deliberately not looking directly at him, uncertain he'd be able to keep his face neutral enough not to send Rodney into a panic attack. He kept his face turned just enough that he could see Rodney without actually looking at him, and wondered if whatever was on that damned tablet could be worth this, and then, surprising the crap out of himself, had an improbably good idea about how to find out. He couldn't quite steady his mind enough to think through the details however, the bursts of pain coming with regularity that should have been numbing, but really really wasn't.

When he saw Rodney move, he looked, had to look; he needed the distraction from the fact that his ass was on fire, and besides that, Rodney couldn't look away because if they had to start again because Rodney fucking wimped out on him, John was going to be really seriously pissed.

Rodney wasn't looking away, though. He'd just shifted his gaze from somewhere in the vicinity of John's face to somewhere further back, and John experienced a moment of bizarre clarity in which he thought, Rodney McKay is looking at my ass. And there was no doubt that that was exactly what Rodney was doing. Not even just looking, but staring, or maybe gazing; John didn't have the right word for what Rodney was doing, though he was very aware that he was doing the same thing in the direction of Rodney's face, because, just, just the way Rodney looked, and John stared, unwillingly captivated.

Rodney was still, for one thing, absolutely still and completely attentive for someone John had had to bamboozle into looking in his direction five minutes ago. He was flushed deeply, his face, yeah, but also his neck all the way down to the collar of his BDU shirt, and his mouth was open and wet and his eyes were wide and weird, intent, focused, but almost glassy, and the whole thing was just bizarrely, insanely mesmerizing.

John blinked, thinking, What the hell, McKay? but he was aware that he was reacting to something about the way Rodney looked, the heat of his ass and his face and the rest of his tense, straining body somehow coalescing and migrating to someplace south of John's navel. He was a little horrified and a little shocked and a little flustered, and yeah, a little turned on, and it had nothing to do with the spanking. John wasn't really into pain, and he'd had enough opportunity for experimentation to be pretty certain of it. Or rather, it had nothing to do with his own reaction to the spanking, but his brain still skittered uncertainly around the edges of the way Rodney looked, the way he was looking. There was nothing like pained resignation on Rodney's face now; he was very obviously looking of his own free will at this point, and looking with an intense and narrow focus that was both familiar and foreign. It wasn't a look John had ever seen before, not on Rodney or anyone else, but it still echoed in John's head in a way that said 'sex' and 'want' and he couldn't stop looking at it. He was so intent on looking at it that he forgot he was trying not to freak McKay out, and the next blow took care of the inappropriate erection, which was great, but it also wrenched a sound out from between his lips that was part groan, part gasp, and part shout.

Rodney's reaction was so immediate as to seem alchemical, transformation of something into something else entirely. His head jerked sideways, and his eyes locked with John's. His mouth snapped shut, a taut, crooked line, and he went white. John actually watched the blood drain out of Rodney's face, leaving him waxy-looking with sweat. The fierce focus blinked out, and left him looking abruptly shaken and off-balance, like he had no idea what was going on, but also humiliated and miserable, like he knew exactly what had just happened. He blinked at John, mouth tugging down a bit further, and then closed his eyes and swayed on his feet, hand drifting slowly upward from his side, palm-out, a warding gesture.

"Rodney," John said, and blinked because he'd managed to lever himself to his feet without noticing he'd done it, and he realized belatedly that Keenan had stopped hitting him. He took a step, and Rodney jerked back, clutching his data pad protectively to his chest, and then the room sort of shimmied around John, and he decided maybe he'd stood up too fast just as one of Rodney's hands clamped solidly around his upper arm.

"Colonel?" Rodney still looked like he might pass out at any second, his eyes too wide and his face too pale, but his mouth was curled downward in concern now, and he looked utterly familiar.

What the hell, McKay? John didn't say.

"A little head rush," John muttered, shocked at how husky and thick his voice sounded. He widened his stance until he felt sure he wasn't going to part ways with his equilibrium again any time soon. "I'm okay. Are you…?"

Rodney shook his head, but not as if he were answering John's question, and his gaze flicked down for a second, and then back up to John's face. He let go of John's arm, his gaze sliding away. "Uh. Maybe… pants, now, Colonel," he said, oddly tentative, and John remembered with genuine surprise that he was naked.

"Oh," John said, and when he turned Keenan was already there, holding his pants in one hand and the paddle of Major Fucking Ow in the other. It was, John noticed for the first time, intricately carved with designs. John guessed he'd be able to match those patterns up to the bruising on his ass tomorrow, if he really wanted to. "I take it we're done here?"

Keenan held out his pants in answer, and John spent several seconds shoving his legs into them and hissing in surprised pain as he drew them up over his ass.

He wouldn't be sitting down voluntarily any time soon, halfway between amused and vaguely pissed off. He was trying to figure out what, exactly, he was pissed about when Keenan pushed a warm stoneware mug in his direction, and it wasn't until he reached gratefully for it that John realized that his hands were shaking. He looked a question at Keenan, who answered, "It's tea. Not eilisi." Conan, John saw, was offering a similar mug to Rodney, who took it without looking up, and John bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes in Conan's direction until Keenan curled a careful hand around his forearm and drew his attention away. Keenan was giving him a look that John was only used to seeing on Elizabeth's face, calm and concern and warning all rolled into one.

It occurred to John that he might be just a little bit fucked up right now (endorphins, shock, adrenaline, yeah, he got it, he knew the aftermath of this level of physicality, he just hadn't expected it to be a part of this, which seemed a little dumb in retrospect), and he clenched his hands around his mug and took a drink of his tea, which was very sweet and very hot, and helped. He drank and took careful stock of himself, finding his body sore and tired but essentially undamaged.

He noticed when Keenan silently dismissed Conan, who slipped out without a word, but chose not to comment. Rodney carried his tea and data pad over to one of the naquadah lamps and began tapping away energetically, and John watched Rodney's shoulders gradually loosen, his face ease, and eventually John felt like he was more or less himself, as well.

Keenan must have thought the same. "You have done us a great honor, Colonel Sheppard. Is there anything further you require of me?"

John blinked and considered the question seriously for a moment. "Yeah," he said finally, surprised all over again at the way his voice sounded, but determined to ignore it. He knew this was probably one of those moments where he should just keep his mouth shut, was beyond certain that Teyla would think so, but he wasn't going to, so he considered what he wanted to know carefully so that he wouldn't get it wrong. The urge to use military doublespeak was strong, even as much as John disliked it as a rule. It would make things so much safer to be vague. "I want to know if what just happened here is going to be a problem for your people." Keenan cocked his head, brows drawing together, so John obligingly rephrased the question. "I want you to look me in the face and tell me that the fact that you just beat the shit out of me isn't going put me in a position of weakness when trading with your people."

Keenan's eyes went wide, and John felt some of the tension knotted in his gut retreat. It must have shown on his face, because Keenan's face relaxed into a wry sort of smirk. "Perhaps that is a question you should have asked before you allowed me to 'beat the shit' out of you, Colonel," he pointed out slyly, and John relaxed a little more, and shrugged.

"It didn't matter before," he said, and Keenan nodded his understanding, which, John thought, was kind of nice. Keenan wasn't military, but the way he thought kind of was. Close enough, anyway. They got each other, and that wasn't something John dismissed lightly.

"No, Colonel. If anything, I think your position with my people has been significantly strengthened by your willingness to adhere to our laws." He looked at John for a long moment, and then offered his hand. John took it, and wasn't surprised when Keenan stepped in close and cupped John's elbow, just holding both warmly for a long moment. "We know you better, now, than we ever could have come to know you from across the width of a bargaining table."

He stepped back, and gave John another slow nod. Unspoken, but clearly expressed, was the solid, comforting truth that Keenan approved of him, of them, and John was satisfied with that. "I will leave you to compose yourself, Colonel. My people will have lunch laid out by now, and we look forward to you joining us at your convenience."

John finished his tea, considering, watching Rodney fiddle with the naquadah lamp, his data pad, and some cables. He ached, his body was literally trembling a little with fatigue as it wound down from the action, but he didn't feel tired. He was hyped, in fact, his mind uncomfortably hectic with things he didn't particularly want to think about right at the moment.

He got dressed, getting used to the way he was going to have to move for the next day or two in order to avoid being really obvious about the fact that his ass hurt, and tried to compose the mission report in his head. It was going to be one of those mission reports, the kind that would have to be either so vague as to be useless, or so detailed as to be overwhelmingly mortifying. John suspected it was going to have to be the latter. If things worked out with the Kurnei -- and John was pretty sure they were going to -- then it would be important that every 'gate team that had dealings with them know exactly what was expected of them, and what they could expect in return.

They had fucked up this time, fucked up and somehow handled the fuck up just right, but they couldn't count on that happening again.

He put himself back together with the sound of McKay tapping away in the background, strangely soothing and business as usual, and he wasn't surprised when McKay said, "I've got something here." That was business as usual, too, even if the stilted, even tone was not.

It wasn't lost on him that the announcement didn't come until John had finished lacing his boots.

John walked obligingly over and rested his hip against the side of the table. Rodney glanced up at him, then down, then made a gesture that could have meant anything. "By, ah, killing all the data pad's other functions, and also siphoning residual power off of a lamp -- they aren't using these things to anywhere near their potential, by the way, just one of them could easily power enough lights of this size to light most of the village with the right conduits in place -- well, I managed to boost the sensors about thirty-eight percent." Which explained the cables. "It only, there's only so much I can do under the, ah, circumstances, but it does give me almost another mile, and I found, there's at least one solid--" He tipped the screen toward John, tapping at the bright mass in one corner with nowhere near the jubilation it deserved if it was what John thought it was. "Well. There's at least one large deposit near the edge of my range. It's impossible to tell the size of it, but it definitely surpasses the confines of the scan."

"Maybe we'll bring a Jumper when we come back, scan the area from the air."

Rodney nodded, and started unhooking the data pad from the lamp without John having to prompt him.

Teyla and Ronon were outside, looking grimly patient while the natives bustled around setting up tables, some of which were already loaded with food. Teyla curled an arm around John's arm, brows together, eyes practically radiating concern. "Colonel. You are well?"

John wasn't sure if he was happy that she'd been worried or aggravated that she didn't think he could handle it, which was enough all by itself to make him sure that he was still kind of fucked up. In light of not having a straightforward answer for the question, he cracked a joke. "A little bruised, frankly. For a little guy, Keenan's got a hell of an arm." He smiled, and Teyla smiled too, but her eyes were a little too alert for John's taste. "Honestly, I was relieved when it turned out his giant pal wasn't going to do it, but in retrospect I don't think the big guy could've hit that much harder."

Ronon smirked, and clapped John on the shoulder. "I could hit you harder," he said with absolute conviction. "If that's what you're into."

John snorted, and made a mental note not to let Ronon hang out with the marines so much. "Thanks, Ronon, you're a real pal," John grinned, and for a few seconds things felt almost normal. Then he caught a glimpse of McKay's still, pale face as he turned toward the fountain, his data pad held in front of him like a shield.

****

They made the walk back to the 'gate in the early evening. It wasn't that far, but they ended up doing the tail end in the dark anyway. It wasn't unusual on missions like this one for them to spend the night off-world -- Keenan had offered, of course -- but Rodney had objected haltingly, muttering something about simulations he had going in the lab, and John had been just as happy to defer a sleepover until the next visit.

He was jumpy and achy and just ready to be home. He was sure that Rodney was just as ready. He had been too quiet all evening, which John had been able to ignore since he'd spent the evening discussing grain and blindenberry wine and naquadah with Keenan. It was harder to ignore as they traced their steps back to the 'gate on the same bad path they'd followed earlier, this time without a word of complaint from McKay. It would have worried him any other time -- hell, it worried him now -- but this time at least he was pretty sure he knew what was going on with McKay, so he just kept his mouth shut and ignored it. He didn't want to discuss it, and he knew Rodney well enough to be fairly certain that he didn't want to discuss it either.

They were going to have to deal with this, but he was really hoping it'd keep a day or two. He was tired, and he was starting to think he knew what the effect of the eilisi tea was going to be like, and he was pretty sure it was going to suck. It wasn't what he would have called a perfect memory -- at least, not yet, though Keenan had said it would take some time -- but it was… distracting.

As long as he was doing something, actively thinking of something else, it was fine, but sometime around the end of supper, as John was sipping something that tasted a little like apple beer and idly watching sparks drift upward from one of several outdoor hearths, there had been an almost vertigo-inducing moment of disorientation (during which he'd spilled his beer, though he hadn't noticed that until later), and he was abruptly watching Rodney's hands on his BDU shirt. They were shaking, he noted, and some part of his brain that seemed to get what was going on pointed out that he hadn't noticed that the first time around, while the rest of his brain flailed in panic for several seconds until the moment passed.

It had happened again when John had ducked off into the wooded area on the outskirts of the village to take a piss, and there were few things in life as disorienting as leaning against a tree with your cock in your hand, pissing and thinking about nothing at all, and then a twist of motion even though he knew he wasn't actually moving, and the sudden feel of the smooth, body-heat warmed wood of the bench under his chest, feeling horizontal even though he knew he was standing up, feeling the abrupt pain of the paddle as if it were actually hitting him that very second, and everything else that had gone with it the first time, the helpless, reactionary tensing of every muscle in his body, the sound of it, the feel of the groan he was trapping in his throat, the creak of the wood his hands were curled around and the counterpoint of Rodney's harsh, fast breathing. John fell, that time, and came back to reality when he hit the ground. He supposed he should be grateful he hadn't pissed on himself, considering.

That was about the time he figured out that it only happened when he wasn't consciously thinking about something else, and he'd spent the rest of the evening keeping his mind otherwise occupied in whatever way he could manage it.

But he was concerned. He wasn't sure if it was even possible to keep his brain working actively every minute of every day, and he was very conscious that it was getting harder already, probably because he was so damned tired. He wanted to get home and get the debriefing out of the way. The mission report could wait until tomorrow, but a few essential facts needed to be communicated to Elizabeth ASAP. Which would be easier, he admitted to himself, with Rodney elsewhere, but probably wasn't going to happen.

The 'gate was in sight when Rodney went down -- and damn everything, John really hoped that particular reaction was just due to them being unaccustomed to the experience, because neither of them could afford the kind of all-encompassing distraction that made you randomly fall over -- and John was on one knee beside him, one hand cushioning Rodney's skull from the ground, so quickly that he realized, somewhat after the fact, that he'd been expecting it.

"McKay," he said brusquely, aware of Ronon and Teyla hurrying over, but preoccupied with Rodney's open, empty eyes, his blank, slack face. Rodney didn't answer; it was like he'd stepped out. "McKay," John snapped again, and gave him a gentle slap upside the head with his free hand. Rodney blinked up at him, breath hitching and gusting out as if he'd been holding it, and then he looked okay again.

"Ow, Colonel," he said, but without rancor, and then he just blinked up at John for another handful of seconds.

"He's all right," John said, tipping his chin to talk over his shoulder. "Teyla, dial the 'gate."

"Shall I have a medical team…" Teyla began, but Rodney sat up quickly, waving his hands energetically enough that John had to dodge out of the way.

"No, I'm fine. It's fine. I." He threw a quick glance at John, and licked his lips. "I misstepped. It's dark out here."

John didn't contradict the lie, just helped Rodney to his feet, and wasn't surprised when Rodney brushed John's hands away from him as soon as he was upright. He took a couple of steps away from John and occupied himself resettling his pack. "I'm good," he muttered, and John pretended not to notice Ronon and Teyla exchanging a look.

They made it back through the 'gate without either of them falling over again, and Elizabeth was waiting, even though it was well after midnight Atlantis-time. Havildar Cheema was beside but slightly behind her, less intrusive with her position than Bates had ever managed to be. John caught her eye and gave her a nod, and she didn't stick around to see any more. She never did.

"Ronon, Teyla, you guys go ahead and turn in. McKay and I will take care of filling Elizabeth in."

"Doctor Zelenka requested that Rodney come to the lab as soon as he arrived," Elizabeth said, frowning when John shook his head.

"Is it an emergency?" he made himself ask, though he wasn't actually sure it mattered.

"No." She looked from John to Rodney and back again. "One of the simulations Radek's been working on is done. He seemed to think Rodney would want to see the results immediately."

"I don't think so," John said, and Rodney frowned, but didn't argue. "Let's go to your office."

Elizabeth just nodded, no questions asked, which was one of the things John liked about her.

John refrained from sitting down, bracing his hands on the back of one of the chairs situated in front of her desk. She gave him a quizzical look, but she didn't ask about that either.

It didn't take that long to fill her in on what had happened, which seemed a little unfair, considering that it seemed to have taken forever to have actually lived it. John didn't leave anything out. He wasn't opposed to editing for television -- he'd been in the military long enough to have a firm grasp of the fact that at least ninety percent of the time the civilians didn't even want to know details of what it took to implement their agendas -- and he'd done his share of it in both debriefings and mission reports, when he felt it was necessary. This time, unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it, he couldn't justify withholding anything. Too many people were going to be going back to Kurn, and not just 'gate teams. Engineers and miners and people to run the equipment needed to transport the naquadah, and it was essential that every last one of them know exactly what they were getting into, because if even one of them got into it with the Kurnei and ended up getting discipline, John was going to choke the life out of whomever it was with his own two hands.

So, he told Elizabeth what she needed to know, and she regarded him solemnly over her clasped hands, elbows resting on her desk, chin resting on her thumbs.

Rodney sat silently in the other chair and didn't offer anything at all to the conversation, which Elizabeth clearly felt was as bizarre as John would have under any other circumstances. But he'd seen Rodney's face, and he'd already had a couple of memories that felt like flashbacks, and he wasn't surprised.

"I think you should see Carson," Elizabeth said finally, and John sighed.

"No."

"John…"

"No."

"It's just a precaution."

"I am not going to see Carson about my bruised ass, Elizabeth!"

Her lips quirked, but she contained it quickly. "I was actually more concerned with the memory tea, John."

"Oh."

"I," Rodney said. "I got a sample. From. For Carson to take a look at."

"Good thinking, Rodney," Elizabeth nodded. "I want both of you to get checked out, though. Rodney, did you have any experiences like John's, with memories of the incident overwhelming the present?"

"I. No." Rodney licked his lips. "Not yet."

John blinked, but didn't say anything. It bugged him, but he wasn't going to call Rodney out in front of Elizabeth. Not when he didn't understand why Rodney felt the need to lie about it.

"It stands to reason that he will, though," John drawled, "and I think the lab would be a bad place for that to happen."

"I agree. I think you'd better both take a day or two to figure out how this is going to affect you. Then we can make plans about how you'll function in your regular duties." She frowned and straightened. "Rodney, I don't suppose you…"

"Yes, yes, I got samples of both kinds of tea," Rodney muttered impatiently, and John smirked, reassured by Rodney's pissiness. "Hello, genius!"

Elizabeth smiled. "Of course," she agreed mildly, which told John clearly that she'd been worried about Rodney's unusually passive role in this particular debriefing. "I'll have Carson meet you in the infirmary."

"It's late, Elizabeth. Tomorrow will be soon enough." John could tell she was on the verge of insisting, and he grinned. "The Kurnei have been drinking this tea for hundreds of years. I agree that knowing exactly how it works and how it affects Rodney's extremely valuable brain are very important things, but not important enough to wake Carson up in the middle of the night. Tomorrow morning, first thing."

"Fine, fine, but if either of you even suspects any kind of complications…"

"Yes, yes, as if I'm going to risk it if I think there's even the remotest chance that something's wrong." Rodney stood up abruptly. "And on that note, I really am very tired, what with the beating and all, so if we're done here?" Rodney stomped out loudly enough that his footfalls were clearly audible for a good ten seconds after he was out of the room.

John and Elizabeth just looked at each other for several long seconds after Rodney left. "I suppose the whole thing was… uncomfortable for him," Elizabeth said eventually.

John snorted. "Yeah. My heart bleeds. Look, Elizabeth, the thing is. What I'm trying to say here is that we weren't prepared. I mean, we've run into weird cultural stuff before, but these people are very nice, and they're very happy to trade us their naquadah, and I think Keenan actually likes McKay, so I think it would be a very bad idea to let this happen again. And not just because it kind of sucked for me."

Her lips quirked again, but she was already nodding. "No, you're absolutely right. Another incident could complicate things irreparably. We should probably be grateful this happened our first time there. If we'd set up trade, started mining, and then there'd been this sort of a misunderstanding. Well. Thing's could've been much worse."

"Teams should be hand-picked and carefully briefed." He shook his head. "We managed to mess it up and then handle it just right, somehow. I don't think we can count on that happening again."

"I agree, John. You don't have to convince me."

But John thought he kind of did, because in some weird way it had become his responsibility to make sure no one else ended up on the wrong end of a Kurnei paddle. It wasn't that he thought the Kurnei would punish anyone that didn't deserve it, and it wasn't even that he was worried about the naquadah, although he was, a little. It was that John had staked his reputation with the Kurnei on the fact that Atlantis was a worthwhile friend and ally, and he gave a shit about that. He gave a shit because he liked the Kurnei, he like Keenan, and he'd done things he most certainly wouldn't ordinarily do in order to give Atlantis an opportunity to keep this alliance, and he was going to be a whole world of pissed if any of his people fucked that up.

"I think. Yeah. I think I should go along with whoever you decide to send back. My team, I mean. We know what to expect, and we'll be able to…"

"John," Elizabeth interrupted, leaning forward to frown at him. "John, are you wigged about this?" She sounded surprised, but only mildly so.

He grinned at her choice of words, and felt himself relaxing a little. "Yeah, maybe. Maybe a little. I feel… responsible."

She smiled a little ruefully. "You're supposed to feel responsible, Colonel. You're in a position of authority."

"Yeah, but more responsible than usual. I like the Kurnei, and not just because they've got naquadah and fizzy apple-beer. I like Keenan."

Elizabeth's smile faded, and she nodded slowly. "I see. Okay, one last thing and I'll let you get to bed. Do I need to talk to Rodney about this? As his supervisor?"

John just looked at her for a moment. "That just sounds painful for everyone involved." She didn't deny it, but gave him a long, level look that plainly said that she was just as aware as he was that he hadn't actually answered the question. He shrugged. "And do what? Write up a report and stick it in his file?" He shook his head. "Do you think that would do more to affect his future behavior than what happened earlier today? Rodney's… Rodney. It doesn't do any good to be upset about that. We all know…" and he floundered for a moment, trying to find the right words and failing completely. "We all know he's worth having around, even when he's not." Which made no sense at all, of course, and yet Elizabeth looked as though she got it completely.

"I'll leave it to your discretion as his team leader, then. Especially if we send your team to oversee other personnel, I do not want a repeat of this from Rodney."

"I don't think that's likely to be a problem," John told her honestly.

****

John made his way to his quarters through nearly empty corridors, occupying his mind with details of the next couple of days, thinking of meeting with Lorne and having him handle the drills he'd planned for the marines the day after tomorrow in the event that John was still falling over randomly. He pondered whether training with Teyla and running with Ronon would be things he'd have to give up, and regretfully decided it was probable. He didn't think much while doing either of those things; that was kind of the point of doing them.

He smelled Rodney before he saw him, and even had a moment to think how weird it was that he apparently knew what Rodney's fear smelled like. Rodney was sitting on the end of John's narrow bed, his elbows on his knees, his head hanging loosely on his neck, and then John was lost in his head, the bright wash of memory accompanied by that same sensation of falling, vertigo, surrounded by the sharp smell of fear-sweat and the sound of Rodney taking deep, carefully spaced breaths filled the room. He could hear the crackle of the fire in the fireplace and feel the sweat on his chest, sticking a little to the wood of the bench beneath him, and maybe some of that fear-stink was coming from him, but most of it was Rodney; even if he hadn't been able to smell it, he could see it in the way Rodney's hands were clenched, white-knuckled, around the data pad he was holding against his chest, and in the way his head was tipped determinedly down and away from John (as though if he didn't see any of it, it wasn't real), in the strain around his tightly-closed eyes and the sneeringly curled-up corner of Rodney's normally mobile and always-expressive mouth. John's flesh crawled and prickled, the back of his neck, his lower back, all the exposed and vulnerable places where the air touched his naked skin, and his hands tightened on the wood he was gripping in sympathy.

This time, at least, he recognized what was happening when Conan took a step toward Rodney, knew the steps his body took to prepare for a fight. He even understood that it was only peripherally Conan who had twigged him, that he'd have reacted the same way to anyone, anything, that targeted Rodney when Rodney was so clearly vulnerable and afraid. It didn't change the weirdly brittle, cold fury that settled into his brain, and the word, "Don't," felt sharp sliding out of his throat, as though it should bloody his lips. And Conan's face was a revelation as he swung his head to look at John, his brows lowering into a frown that never reached completion as his eyes met John's, morphing into a flutter of fear, his eyes wide and totally aware of the 'I will kill you,' that John didn't actually say, his hands coming up, both to defend and to deny being a threat.

Keenan's voice was both a warning and an order, a softly murmured, "Leovar." Relief and regret in equal parts curled in John's belly as Conan took a step back, because what he wanted, what he really wanted was to bloody the big motherfucker for daring, for daring, when John had said, had made it perfectly fucking clear that no one was touching any of John's people, and if it hadn't been for the lessons learned over the last two years in Pegasus, if it hadn't been for John's rueful understanding of his own responsibility and Atlantis's need, he would have done it, would have demonstrated his fury with great pleasure.

But there was a mission, there was Atlantis, Rodney was afraid, and instead he said, "Let's all just settle down," the right words, even if he couldn't make his voice right. He looked at Rodney, at Rodney's surprise -- which made him even angrier because how could he look at John like that, like he thought John might not protect him when John always protected him -- and fear, though now it was John he was afraid of. It was fear shot through with relief and uncertainty and gratitude, but that made John want to snarl as much as anything else, at the superfluity of it, because Rodney was his, Ronon and Teyla were his, Atlantis was his, and he didn't want or need gratitude from any of them for doing whatever was necessary to protect them, damnit.

"Colonel," Rodney's voice murmured close by, and there was a weird moment of temporal confusion, a discordant space of seconds in which John couldn't actually grasp what was real and what was memory. He found himself reaching for Rodney in a place he wasn't standing, hand closing on nothing; he blinked and it was gone. No, not gone. But retreated enough that he was aware of himself, on his back on the floor of his quarters, and aware of Rodney on his knees at John's side. The anger crouched in his chest was misplaced, chronologically speaking, if not in actuality, but he still sat up quickly, startling Rodney enough that he flailed backward a little, and flinched when John caught both of his upper arms and shook him a little, leftover anger that John couldn't let go of. "Colonel!" he squeaked, eyes wide, mouth pulled down into a frown that was pure misery, no petulance or arrogance in evidence; John got a hold of himself and let go.

"Christ," he spat, and raked both hands through his hair; only then did he become aware of the way he was sitting on the floor, knees up, all his weight pressing really very painfully down on his bruised ass. He struggled up to his knees, which lessened some of the immediate pain, but he still ached all over, bruising and tension and just a long, hard day. "Will you… Christ, what do you want, McKay?"

Rodney flinched back, shoulders hunching like he was expecting a blow, and he waved his hands, part dismissal and part habit, his eyes skittering from some point over John's shoulder to the front of John's shirt, then settled on his own hands, which he wound together in his lap. "Nothing, I just, just thought I should tell you. I just wanted to tell you I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't think, I never thought. I didn't know."

"You didn't know what?" John grumbled, but he wasn't paying attention, didn't really care what had Rodney's panties in a bunch. Rodney was always sorry after, and John didn't have the patience to deal with it tonight. He was too intent on dealing with the flashback that had just happened, trying to push it away, because he got that he was seeing things in memory that there hadn't been time to consider when everything had actually been happening, and he really just didn't want to have to think about those things right now.

"The, the, the," Rodney stammered, and waved his hands broadly, an encompassing gesture, and then just looked at John helplessly. John looked back, brows raised in question, impatient, and Rodney's face tightened and he shook his head. "No, you know what, no, just. Nevermind." Rodney stood up abruptly, and then swayed on his feet, taking a quick sideways step and bracing a hand against the wall. John noticed for the first time that Rodney was pale, and there was a fine sheen of sweat at his temples. Rodney blinked slowly and cocked his head.

"Did you eat, McKay?" John asked, and tried to remember if Rodney had been eating at supper with the natives. He couldn't remember; he'd been avoiding Rodney as much as Rodney had been avoiding him, after the thing.

"It's fine, I'm," Rodney mumbled distractedly, but John still only barely managed to get to his feet and brace Rodney when his knees buckled.

"McKay," he grated out, spreading his feet to take Rodney's weight because Rodney certainly wasn't supporting any of it. He wasn't surprised when Rodney didn't react. His eyes weren't blank and empty like they had been on the planet, but they were distant, unfocused. He looked like he sometimes looked when he was thinking hard or had just had an idea of ass-saving magnitude. John turned his body enough to get him braced against the wall, which helped; Rodney outweighed him by twenty pounds, probably, and was broad and awkward to boot. Up close, he smelled like PowerBars and shampoo and sweat; John could smell the sour fear that had hit him in the face when he'd first walked into his room, too, but it was less now, not more, so whatever it was Rodney was remembering must have been less scary than… Than what? Than waiting for John to get home and apologizing? John frowned at that.

"Oh," Rodney breathed, and for a second John thought Rodney was with him again, but Rodney just breathed in once, a sharp inhalation, and said, "Oh," again, and John wondered, abruptly uncomfortable, if he had talked during the last flashback, because he didn't want to know what he might have sounded like if he had. Rodney… He sounded wrecked. He sounded close to desperate.

"Rodney," John said, and shook him as much as he could with Rodney wedged between the wall and John's shoulder, but there wasn't much else he could do except hold him there and wait for it to be over, listen to Rodney's fast, almost whistling breaths. He wasn't sure if he thought it would help or if he just didn't want to hear it if Rodney said anything else, but he heard himself saying, "Hey, Rodney, hey, buddy. You're all right, I've got you, I've got you."

He kept repeating it until the sudden tension in Rodney's frame told him Rodney was with him again. John fought the urge to back away immediately, and said, "Can you stand up?"

"I am standing up, Sheppard," Rodney pointed out nastily, and John felt himself smirking tiredly. He pulled back carefully, slowly, and Rodney stayed put, still leaning against the wall, but upright under his own power. "This is just great," Rodney sniped, and rubbed at his face with one hand. "This is just. Really great."

"Yeah," John agreed. "Great."

Rodney sighed. "Not that it hasn't been fun, Colonel, but I'll be turning in now, if you don't mind?"

John didn't point out that Rodney had come to his room. He also didn't ask what specific bit of memory had just played out in Rodney's head. It felt… too personal, in light of the intensity of his own most recent flashback. "Is it going to get better, or worse, do you think?" he asked, as a more-or-less innocent substitute for what he really wanted to know.

"Worse, I imagine," Rodney grumbled without a single snippy comment about voodoo. Then, grudgingly, "But better, eventually. I think. Well, it's not my area, obviously, but if we extrapolate what we can from the information Keenan gave us, there's a period of adjustment; the human brain works a certain way, there's a certain distribution of chemicals and electrical impulses that governs memory, and the tea probably alters that somewhat in this specific instance. It only makes sense that our brains would take some time to incorporate the way this memory works. Or the tea makes the memory work. Or." Rodney glared balefully at John. "You know what, ask Carson tomorrow. I'm going to bed."

John spent a couple of minutes just standing there after the door whooshed closed behind Rodney, anchoring himself in the present with predictions of just how much tomorrow was going to suck.

****

It had occurred to John that sleep might be difficult, but it turned out to as easy as lying down and closing his eyes. There was no sense of time having passed at all when he opened his eyes and saw that it was morning.

"Huh," he said out loud, and then it hit him.

He was already lying down, so he didn't fall over, and it was less like a flashback this time, and more like sinking. Maybe because he'd just woke up, or maybe just because the tea had taken full effect while he was sleeping, there was no fighting it.

The mug of tea Keenan handed him was warm and solid in his hands, and the air smelled like wood smoke and sweat. John sipped at his tea, and watched Rodney. He was a little too cool now that all the exertion was over, sweat drying in prickles on his skin, his muscles trembling in the aftermath of adrenaline. He drank tea and watched Rodney's competent hands as he ran cables between the naquadah lamp and his data pad. He got that Rodney was using the work to anchor himself, calming himself down by occupying himself with the routine, and John didn't try to deny that he was doing the same thing, watching Rodney's hands and listening to Rodney make little humming sounds, and using the very familiarity of those things to counteract the craziness of the last twenty minutes. He ached, but it was no worse than he'd get from a hard workout with Teyla. He didn't feel tired. His mind wasn't winding down at the same rate as his body, and he couldn't stop himself from seeing the faint tremor in Rodney's hands as he worked, and the way he was hunched into himself over the data pad. He was uncomfortably aware that this was going to affect them, but he couldn't guess at how. He didn't like the way Rodney looked, though, and he wished he'd been paying more attention when it had actually happened.

That was about the time that he realized that he was aware of exactly what was going on, that he could feel his sheets against his skin and smell the salt-smell of Atlantis. He wasn't caught the way he had been before. He sat up to test that theory, and the memory fell away.

"Huh," he said again, blinking at his quarters thoughtfully, and lay back down.

It took no effort at all to slip back into memory. He spent maybe a second thinking about the cool prickle of sweat drying on his skin and the vertical frown lines between Rodney's brows, and he could see it all, down to the unhappy line of Rodney's mouth as his fingertips skittered over the surface of the data pad.

He dressed slowly, taking the opportunity to stretch a little, feeling where he ached and thinking about how it was going to affect him over the next couple of days, how he would compensate for it if it somehow came to a fight while he was still hurting.

There was a slight quaver in Rodney's voice when he said, "I've got something here." Rodney sounded tense and uncertain, and John relaxed, some of the tightness at the base of his neck fading, because he had been waiting for him to say something, which he hadn't actually realized at the time. In retrospect, it was a little dense of him; he'd been waiting for Rodney to say something because Rodney always said something. John wasn't the one that filled uncomfortable silences. He wasn't the one that tried to fix things between them when they went weird, either. That was always Rodney.

How had he not known that?

It gave him some perspective on last night's little visit, though, and not the good kind. The kind where you become aware, far too late to do anything about it, that you were kind of an asshole. And really, how bizarre was it to suddenly realize that McKay was the one bearing the brunt of the daily maintenance when it came to their friendship.

"Shit," John muttered, and blinked at his ceiling when he heard himself speak and realized he could see his ceiling.

He'd come up out of the memory without realizing it, apparently, slipped out of it easily and without even trying. Well. That was promising, at least. Maybe he was getting a grip on the situation.

His radio beeped at him from the bedside table, and John turned to look at it for a second, surprised, before he fumbled for it, distracted for another second or two as he caught sight of his watch, which told him that it was late. "Sheppard," he said, once he'd fumbled the radio over his ear.

"Colonel," Carson greeted him cheerfully. "Doctor Weir informs me that I should be expecting a visit from you this morning?"

"Yeah, yes," John said, and rubbed at his face with one hand. "I didn't realize it was so late. Let me grab a shower."

"Take your time," Carson agreed.

John fumbled the headset off again and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He managed to shower and dress without incident, and was on his way to the infirmary when it occurred to him to wonder if Rodney had already made it there with the sample of the eilisi. For about four seconds, he considered stopping by Rodney's quarters to check, and then decided against it. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he owed Rodney an apology, and he didn't even want to think about how aggravating that was probably going to turn out to be before he had some coffee and breakfast in him.

And maybe Rodney had already been to Carson, in which case it was moot anyhow.

He spent a small eternity in the infirmary, of course. He repeated everything he remembered Keenan telling them, related everything about how the memories worked so far, submitted to blood tests and a brain scan in an Ancient machine that presented a fairly cool 3D model of John's brain for them to look at, though he was less thrilled by the way it sliced John's brain into sections for them to examine more closely.

Rodney had, indeed, already dropped off a sample of both kinds of tea for Carson (apparently in the very early hours of the morning), and Carson promised to let John know immediately if he found anything weird or dangerous, either from the samples or from the blood tests and brain scans.

He also refused to allow John to escape without examining what he delicately referred to as "... the physical results..." of the mission, which made John snort even as he bitched bitterly about having to drop trou and lie face down on an exam table while Carson poked him in the ass and muttered about deep muscle bruising, sounding disgruntled, and even more Scottish because of it, as though John's bruised ass was a deeply personal affront.

He firmly refused to clear John for even light duty when John made hopeful sounds in that direction. John wasn't surprised, and couldn't even argue the case in favor.

As John put his pants back on, Carson leaned so close to the display on which John's brain currently rotated in all its 3-D glory that his nose was practically touching it. After a few seconds of that, he flipped another display around, moving them until they were side by side, and stood looking between the two, hands on his hips. Both images showed a lighter splotch in the same general area, weirdly yellow against the varying shades of blue-gray. The splotch on the second screen -- which had to be Rodney's -- was slightly bigger.

"Is that...?" John asked, and Carson nodded and hmmed, nose nearly on the screen again, so John stepped closer, because surely if there was some kind of confidentially thing that meant John couldn't look at Rodney's brain Carson would have yelled at him by now. "Mine looks different than McKay's," John pointed out, tapping the yellowish splotch and frowning a little at the disparity. "His is... bigger."

Carson snickered.

John pivoted toward him in surprise, and Carson waved both hands at him in apology, but he was still clearly trying to suppress laughter. "Sorry, sorry," he half-gasped, lips twitching. "Doctor humor!"

John snorted. "Twelve-year-old-boy humor, you mean," he accused, but he could feel his lips wanting to curve as well. "Jesus, Carson!"

"No, I'm sorry, Colonel. You're absolutely right, totally inappropriate," Carson agreed, schooling his features into solemnity. John made his mouth stop twitching.

They looked at each other.

Carson snorted and dissolved into soft, breathless chuckles, and John grinned, shaking his head and sighing theatrically.

"Something I should know?" Elizabeth asked, rounding the curtain