The Janxnuy shield was pliable, but invulnerable to punctures, to energy weapons, to fire and flood, and even though it stretched against John's hand like the skin of a popped balloon, it was clear as glass.

Every now and again, teachers in school had tried the "heart to heart" approach with John, encouraging him to get involved in more extracurricular activities. "You're always on the outside," they'd say, and he'd nod a little, sympathetically. They were trying; they didn't know he'd made a habit of sitting in the desks nearest the classroom doors because quick exits were just easier, that his childhood had been a series of car trips, driving away from base housing, staring out the back window as his latest school, his most recently mowed lawn, his last skateboard half pipe got smaller and smaller in the distance.

He thinks they could appreciate the irony about now.

Behind him, Ronon and a handful of unlucky stragglers stood around on the shadowless plain, most with an anxious eye turned to the white sky. Rodney was maybe three feet away from him, in the wide plaza that opened out from the main building, but on the other side of the shield's bubble, and therefore utterly, eerily silenced. John couldn't hear the scrabble of polymers on metal as Rodney worked frantically at the guts of a console, or the rumbling buzz of the blinking timer that meant it was time for Rodney's next hit of lal. Eventually, the Janxnuy had resorted to force-feeding Rodney the piss-yellow tea in an effort to keep him conscious enough to fix their failing shield before the Hive ship loomed into visible orbit.

John himself had been awake for going on 32 hours, and the world was grainy and unreal behind him. One of the smaller kids slapped his hands against the shield, calling for his mother. On the other side, a woman with the kid's curly, reddish hair was crying, her face wet and contorted, and John didn't need to hear her to know she was screaming. Rodney flinched a little, giving her an anxious glance, before hunching over the machine to jimmy a long wire into a crack in the mechanism.

Teyla had her back to Rodney, but John could see enough of her profile to make out that she was giving the five large, unarmed guards who'd been dosing Rodney a look that promised them a world of pain. They herded her aside easily enough, just the same. Two of them dragged Rodney away from the console and a third clamped a hand around his jaw, prying his mouth open enough to tip a vial of lal past his teeth—the Janxnuy apparently knew nothing of needles, no matter how advanced their chemistry. Rodney didn't put up much of a fight; John figured he was just as frantic to fix the shield as the Janxnuy were to have him do it.

He could hear the whine of the incoming darts, but didn't bother to look up; Ronon had that covered, and it wasn't like they had their weapons, anyway. John gave a brief thought to the civilians. The city was in the middle of a desert plain. No trees to shelter under, not so much as a patch of tall grass to stash the kids in, and John would have tried hiding them in shallow pits dug in the sand, but the soil was hardpan, blue-gray clay baked into giant cracked plates by the parching sun.

They had about ten or twelve seconds before the culling beams would hit them.

On the other side of the shield, they'd let Rodney go and he'd flung himself over the console again, his face pink with feverish concentration. Teyla was speaking to Rodney, and John imagined her low, soothing voice under the building screech of the darts.

"Sheppard," Ronon said tightly, and John could feel the squall of heat and kicked-up grit that meant the darts were already closing on them.

And then, just like that, John was on the other side of the bubble. The shield overhead seemed to magnify the sound of frightened, weeping evacuees, until the plaza was roaring with the sound, the shrill of the darts still in his ears. Rodney gave him a goggle-eyed stare before reaching out to press a forefinger into the hollow of John's shoulder, just past the gap of his tac vest.

"You were standing right there the whole time?"

"What just happened?" Feeling punchy, John glanced around the room, catching Teyla's look of exhausted relief, the mother-who'd-been-screaming burying her face in her little boy's hair, and a glimpse of his own shadowed face in the low, curved ceiling of the shield.

"It's sort of like one way glass," Rodney explained. "You can see in but we can't see out. I mean that metaphorically, too. The sensors are beyond repair on this piece of crap, so I had no idea where you were. We thought—we thought you'd already been culled."

"A few seconds more and we would have been. What did you do, anyway?"

Rodney blinked at him. "I extended the shield out about a mile in every direction."

John smiled a little.

"Of course you did."

"But it's not going to hold," Rodney said, eyes getting huge. "And if we can't convince the Anphur Fil to let me restore power to the gate, we're all pretty much just a buffet table for the Wraith out there."

"How long?"

"Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen?"

"To fix the gate?"

"Before the shield fails again," Rodney croaked. The lal made him hoarse-- or maybe he'd strained something yelling at the guards.

Luckily, Teyla was already explaining this to the ashen-faced leader of the Janxnuy, who only nodded weakly and waved the guards aside so that Rodney could access the gate.

In what seemed like seconds, the wormhole gushed into the room and splashed back into itself: a ring of shivering light.

*

In the end, they evacuated to the beta site with what stores the tiny population could carry, and John promised to bring them back the gate addresses of worlds that would agree to take the refugees. The desolate look on the Anphur Fil's face made John agree to let Teyla offer tents and bedding for the children and elderly. He figured this was downright neighborly, considering that he and his people had been little better than hostages for the last three days.

Then he turned his back on them and brought his team home.

*

"... and while we were not formally prisoners, they had confiscated our weapons, and when Rodney tired too much to complete his work before the Wraith came, the Anphur Fil saw fit to force him to continue," Teyla explained. She was still in her scrubs from her own exam, and Carson was fussing over Rodney on the table behind her.

Elizabeth's face showed her concern.

"She didn't seem too happy about it," Ronon added.

"She did not. I believe it was an act of desperation, and not borne of malice."

"And when you were trapped outside the shield?" Elizabeth tipped her head back to study Ronon.

"I'm pretty sure that was an accident. Some of her people were still with us. We'd gone to help evacuate the village and when we got back, the shield was up." Ronon gave an eloquent shrug.

Elizabeth turned to John, with a question in her eyes.

"And what's your opinion, Colonel? Are the Janxnuy to be considered hostiles?"

John considered a moment before grudgingly admitting, "I think they were doing the best they could in a bad situation. I say we leave 'em alone for now. I don't think they'll come looking to cause us any trouble."

Rodney made a peevish little huffing sound and frowned at nothing in particular.

"His heart rate's fine, thank goodness," Carson said, lifting his stethoscope from Rodney's bare chest. "And your blood pressure's quite good, Rodney," he added approvingly.

"He makes me jog now," Rodney intoned, giving John a dark look. John gave him a bland smile in return. If Rodney was going to go off-world, he was going to be fit for it.

"There's hardly a trace of it in his bloodstream. It seems to break down quickly. That's something, at least."

"You better believe it breaks down quickly," Rodney pointed out irritably. "Remember the part where I got dosed every two hours? I'll have bruises until I'm eighty-five, thanks to those no-necked thugs."

John remembered standing there, trying to unclench his hands every time the goddamned timer rumbled and cued another round of force-feeding. Déjà vu all over again—at least it was only one member of his team, this time. Except it was probably the one member who would take it the hardest.

"And no side-effects, aside from the wakefulness? No shakes, no headaches or problems with your vision?"

"Not that I can tell," Rodney reported, rubbing at an eyebrow with the heel of his hand. "In fact, if I wasn't so full of incredibly violent loathing of those people at the moment, I'd suggest that we trade with them for some of it. It could come in handy the next time Radek and I have to whip up a nice apocalypse on a moment's notice. Besides that, I could make a mint if I brought some back to Earth and sold it on college campuses. Better living through chemistry. Now leave me alone; I've got a nice cozy coma coming to me, and I won't let your womanish hovering keep me from it."

He curled up on the cot with his back to Carson, yanking the sheet to his neck and screwing his eyes shut. John and Elizabeth shared an amused look and left him to his rest.

*

They were on stand-down for the next two days while they all caught up on sleep and Lorne's team relocated the Janxnuy to a cool, boggy planet called Haliead.

After 24 hours, Rodney was released from the infirmary and brushed past John in the hallway at a brisk clip, a haggard, determined look on his face. As John was going in that direction anyway, he followed after him, walking into Rodney's room a few seconds after the door had closed behind Rodney to find him on his knees with his face pressed into the rucked up blankets of his bed.

John's first thought was, Jesus, is he having—what, a heart attack? A seizure?

John was halfway across the room before he realized the tight, desperate moan wasn't pain, before he recognized the quick, practiced motion of Rodney's mostly hidden hand, and his ears went red and his stomach did a weird, tilting cartwheel and his dick gave a hopeful, sympathetic twitch. But before he could give in to his next impulse, which was I should help the guy out, Rodney turned his head a little and his eyes flew open, his expression stricken, the wet head of his red cock just visible in his clenched fist.

"Jesus, doesn't anyone knock anymore?"

For a long moment, John just stared at him stupidly, and Rodney scrambled to his feet, tucking himself away and buckling his belt, his face scarlet and his mouth slanted down.

"I'm a little bit busy dying of humiliation over here, so excuse me for not being a better host, but what the hell were you thinking, barging in here—"

John held up placating hands.

"I saw you in the hallway and you looked a little freaked out. I just followed you in to see how you were doing. I had no idea you were—and I mean, seriously, you're pretty quick on the draw, Rodney. I was just a few steps behind you."

Rodney seemed to count this as an apology and his forbidding look crumbled; his face was waxy and hollow-eyed.

"I couldn't—I can't sleep. I haven't slept in—god—four days now. And fucking Carson won't give me sedatives, says he can't predict how they'd interact with the lal they gave me, and I just. I just wanted to sleep a little. I thought, you know. It would help me relax. And I wasn't about to give Carson's nurses a free show," he said, raising his chin. "So I was, uh, kind of in a hurry."

"Okay, buddy," John said kindly. "I'll just, uh, leave you to it then," and he backed up a few steps toward the door.

Rodney sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. "No, no, my mood is shot now. And anyway, I'll probably never be able to jerk off again without being convinced that someone will walk in on me in the middle of it."

John gritted his teeth and said, finally, "How about some exercise then?"

"Tell me you're kidding," Rodney said dully.

John clapped him on the shoulder. He reached for the sweats Rodney had hung over the back of a chair and tossed them over. "Best thing for you," he said sagely.

*

But while a few miles of jogging around the city and finishing up at the gym had Rodney sweaty and panting, he shook his head when John asked him if he thought he could sleep.

"If anything, I'm more awake than ever," he said with a poisonous glare.

He dropped heavily onto a nearby mat in the gym and was still laying there, bloodshot eyes on the ceiling, his face curdled in bitchy disgust, when Elizabeth came in wearing track pants, with a purple mat rolled up under her arm. She was tying her hair up into a ponytail before she noticed Rodney on the floor. She gave John a questioning look and John shrugged.

"He can't sleep," he explained.

"I'm going to die," Rodney said with dark certainty. "On top of fatal exhaustion, Slim Goodbody here thought it would be healthy to make me run a marathon. At this point, I'm just waiting for the inevitable heart attack. At least death will be restful," he added bitterly.

Zelenka, Cadman, Miko, Ronon, Teyla, Heightmeyer, Simpson and a clump of the marines John commanded filed in, each one carrying a mat. They formed a little half circle around Rodney, still on the mat, peering at him with curious faces.

Zelenka prodded Rodney in the shoulder with his bare foot, and Rodney scowled at him, but made no effort to get up.

"What? Jesus, I should I charge admission! Don't you people have some place to be?"

"Rodney," Elizabeth said, now seated on her own mat in the lotus position, "I lead a yoga class here every other day, time permitting. Why don't you join us?"

"Hmm, let me think," Rodney said brightly. "No."

Heightmeyer and Elizabeth shared a speaking look, and Heightmeyer knelt beside Rodney, tucking her light hair behind one ear and said, "Rodney, I think you could really benefit from this class. It'll be good for you."

"Your back frequently pains you," Teyla chimed in, her voice kind. "I believe you will find the stretching very beneficial."

"And Carson says you're not sleeping well," Elizabeth added.

"Try at all," Rodney clarified.

"So you should try this," John said reasonably. "Unwind, and hopefully sleep."

"Oh my god, it's like the Spanish Inquisition, only with draw-string pants!"

"I can make it an order," John said evenly.

"Fine," Rodney said, holding out a hand so John could haul him to his feet. "But if I have to suffer, you have to stay, too."

"I think that would be a good idea, John," Elizabeth smiled.

John made himself smile back.

*

Elizabeth led everyone through the poses, and Rodney muttered darkly through every Downward Dog, but he stuck it out. When Elizabeth encouraged Rodney to lay on his back with his legs outstretched against the gym wall, Rodney said, "I've never been more glad that this room isn't mirrored," and "This is strangely comfortable," and later, when Zelenka demonstrated shoulder stands, he commented, "I admit it. I'm impressed. And yet also distracted." John perked an eyebrow in question and Rodney added, "He kind of has hairy feet."

It was true.

John liked it a lot more than he'd have thought, not just because he was glad to see his friends all around him stretching and winding down. Teyla flowed through each movement with her familiar, quiet grace. Ronon's actions were halting and seemed to require a lot of concentration. He was clearly new at this, and he kept his eyes on Teyla rather than Elizabeth for his cues. John felt kind of relieved to see that Ronon wasn't particularly flexible, and that his arms trembled a little when he reached for his toes. The stretches and breathing and shifting, fluid motion beat the hell out of meditating with Teer, clearing his head and unlocking his lower back.

After a little over an hour, Elizabeth had everyone stretch out for the cool-down Elizabeth called "Shavasana" and opened the windows, letting in the smell and sound of the sea. Then, much as she had during the practice when she'd helped Ronon align his feet, gently pressed a hand to the small of Cadman's back to encourage a deeper stretch, she walked through the rows while everyone else stretched out with their eyes closed and bent down to touch each person in the class. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw her stroke the fingertips of both hands lightly against Rodney's forehead, and when she came to kneel behind him, her cool fingers cupped the back of his head briefly and she pressed her thumbs against the muscles at the base of his neck. Eventually, there was a soft chiming and the rest of the class stirred again, stretching and finally rolling up their mats...except for Rodney, who was conked out on his borrowed rush mat, his mouth slack, his sweaty hair mashed down at his temples.

Elizabeth gave John a serenely proud little smile and held a finger to her lips, leading the rest of the class out of the room. John stayed where he was, cross legged on his own mat, just keeping an eye on the guy, just listening to the ocean.

*

If Rodney thought it was weird that John was still there when his grumbling stomach woke him for dinner, he didn't mention it. John had draped a clean towel over him and had done some push-ups and sit-ups to kill time, figuring he'd let Rodney nap a while before waking him and seeing that he got back to his room for some real sleep.

When Rodney's eyes slipped open, he looked at John and said, "What day is it?"

"It's still Tuesday," John assured him.

"Good, good. Wait—do you think there'll be any pizza left?"

"Probably," John allowed.

"God, I'm starving." His stomach rumbled again and John slapped it in a friendly way.

"Tell me something I don't know," he said.

Rolling neatly to his feet, John watched Rodney stretch cautiously, as if checking to see if Sun Salutes had caused him any lasting damage, before pressing himself up onto his hands and knees and standing up. He staggered a little and John slipped a supporting hand under his arm.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Rodney said peevishly, but he let John steady him and then rubbed at his eyes. "Head rush," he reported.

"And manly hunger," John suggested.

"Probably," Rodney allowed, giving him a narrow look. He made for the door and John ambled after him, smiling.

*

The next day, he found Rodney at lunch in the mess, looking better rested, but still a little pale.

"How you doin', Rodney?"

"I have a headache," Rodney announced, focusing on a bowl of canned peaches. "But that's only to be expected, I suppose."

"Maybe you're dehydrated. You slept, what, sixteen hours?"

Rodney had all but pulled a face plant in his pizza after sucking down four slices of pepperoni and extra cheese. Ronon had half-carried the guy back to his quarters, and John hadn't seen any sign of him until now.

"Mm," Rodney agreed listlessly, and swallowed his cooling coffee.

John rolled his eyes.

"Coffee won't help with the dehydration, you know."

Rodney ignored him, but Ronon showed up with a tall glass of ice water.

"Drink it," he rumbled.

Rodney looked at him askance but gulped it down anyway.

"Teyla thinks you should keep coming to the yoga practices," Ronon said.

"I'm sure she does," Rodney said, rolling his eyes. "Nevertheless, I feel my time will be better spent keeping the city afloat. I'm funny that way."

"You can make the time," John said in his most reasonable you'll-do-it-and-shut-up-about-it voice.

"Christ, it's like gym class all over again." He looked genuinely dismayed. "At least you don't have a whistle," he sighed.

"I can get one," John said sweetly.

"Ha. Very ha," Rodney said.

Ronon cocked his head and asked, "Whistle?"

*

The next morning, they had a briefing before heading out to G6F-762.

"The Batisni people are known for their weaving. They have crops that yield a thread that is much like your silk," Teyla explained. "And they are skilled builders as well."

"Oh, goody. I can hardly to wait to see Planet Macramé."

Generally, Rodney waited until he was actually planetside to begin pissing and moaning about it, so John shot him a quelling glance and gave Elizabeth a small, practiced smile.

"Maybe we can score some tablecloths. Class up the mess a bit."

"Maybe," Elizabeth said with a quirk of her lips.

*

"Anything?" John hadn't really thought there'd be any Ancient energy signatures around, but it was always worth checking out.

"Nothing worth mentioning," Rodney returned, frowning at his laptop screen. Ahead of them, Teyla was bartering for a bolt of orange cloth that lightened to canary at the edges. Ronon was running a hand along the polished woodwork displayed in front of one of the many market tents.

John shrugged and nodded toward a potted plant hanging from a wrought iron tripod by finely braided cords.

"You totally called the macramé," he pointed out.

"Apparently," Rodney said. He walked over to a bench and sat down heavily. John took a long hard look at him: a little pale, maybe, but he wasn't sweating or coughing or in any other way showing signs of ill health. Still, he was a little off somehow.

"You feeling okay?" He wondered if Rodney's headache from yesterday was back.

"Fine," Rodney said shortly, but he cut his eyes away and stared with some concentration at a row of fantastically complex tapestries hung on the tent flap beside him.

John decided to let it go for the moment, and Teyla walked back toward them with a smile, the cloth tucked under her arm.

*

After they got back and apprised Elizabeth of the lack of Ancient Tech and the abundance of tablecloths to be had, John rounded up some of the newest marines and spent the afternoon getting thrown by Sergeant Bethany Kincaid while Ronon took on the rest of the class two at a time.

*

Walking back to his room for a shower, he found Zelenka in the hallway, talking down a red-faced Simpson.

"Hey, Doc. What's up?"

"McKay is a grade A asshole," Simpson snapped. John blinked at her; usually, Simpson ranked up with Teyla and Heightmeyer when it came to professional zen. Rodney must have really outdone himself this time.

Zelenka shrugged and held up his hands.

"He is being snippy and interfering even for Rodney," he explained.

"Uh, he's been a little under the weather lately," John offered lamely. "And I'm sure he's... probably sorry about yelling at you. Or doing whatever it was he did."

Simpson just glared at him, clearly still seething, and even Zelenka looked stony.

"Maybe I'll swing by the lab, see what's up with him."

"I think that would be a good idea," Zelenka said crisply.

*

He was hunched over his keyboard when John found him.

"Hey, Rodney."

"Go away. I'm incredibly busy."

"I can see that. You're busy acting like a jerk and pissing off your co-workers."

"Oh, who's maligning me now?"

"I found Simpson and Zelenka plotting against you in the hallway, so you'll probably want to apologize for whatever it is you did."

Rodney gave him a brief, bored glance before ducking back to tap at his keyboard.

"I mean it, Rodney."

Still typing, Rodney said, "I'm very, very, very sorry. Awully, terribly, extremely sorry. And I'll never do it again. Promise."

Rolling his eyes, John poked Rodney, hard, in the shoulder.

"What did you do, anyway?"

Rodney actually looked vaguely guilty for a moment and admitted, "I may have accidentally told Lt. Kuring that Simpson's carried a torch for him since day one." At John's look of incredulity, Rodney stammered, "What? I was only trying to be helpful. I mean, Kuring's totally oblivious and—"

John broke in, compelled to ask, "How did you even know?"

"I overheard her and Miko talking about it two or three times. A day. Honestly, you'd think my lab was a cheerleader camp for all the giggling that goes on in there—and that's just Zelenka."

Giving Rodney a stern, assessing once over, John noted the empty coffee mug on the bench, the dark smudges under Rodney's eyes, the slight tremor in his hands.

"You should probably apologize some more, anyway. And maybe knock off a little early. A little more sleep wouldn't kill you."

"Yeah, sure, fine," Rodney said, waving him out of the lab with more eagerness than John felt the situation warranted.

*

John found himself flashing on that image of Rodney—on his knees, making small, urgent sounds, the nearly hidden motion of his hand, that raw glimpse of skin—at random times of the day. In the cockpit of the jumper, just about to land, in the middle of a set of push-ups, while folding his laundry. Each time, there was a prickle at the back of his neck, and a disturbing tug of interest in his dick and it all made him feel uncomfortable and vaguely guilty.

*

They'd been back from Janx for five days when Rodney didn't show for a morning meeting with the electrical engineers, and Dr. Fulgher called John to tell him that Rodney wasn't answering pages. John ignored a sudden wave of unease and promised to hunt Rodney up for them.

When he got to Rodney's quarters, Rodney answered the door about two seconds before John would have forced it.

He looked sweaty and pale, but characteristically annoyed.

"What what what?"

"You missed a meeting with Fulgher and his guys," John said, trying for casual.

Rodney frowned and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "I must have overslept," he said vaguely. "I'll send them an email. We can reschedule it." He shuffled back to his bed and opened his laptop. John followed him in to stand over him with crossed arms.

"Rodney, what is up with you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't think you're feeling well. And since it's not like you to not tell everybody within shouting distance about your possible hangnails, I've gotta say that I'm starting to get a little worried."

"That's very touching, Colonel Cares-A-Lot, but I can assure you that you have nothing to worry about." It might even have been convincing, if Rodney hadn't been so careful to keep his face turned towards the blue glow of his laptop screen.

"Rodney," John said.

"Fine!" Rodney snapped, finally looking up. "Fine, I've been having headaches. All right? Nothing a few ibuprofen won't take care of."

"For how long?"

"Since I got back from Janx, pretty much."

"Do you think it could be from the lal?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"Why didn't you tell Carson?"

Rodney didn't answer right away, and John began to seriously worry.

"Rodney, is that all? Just headaches?"

"Yeah. But they're pretty much constant. Not quite migraines, but."

"But?"

"That's it," Rodney said stolidly.

"Rodney, quit holding out on me!"

"It's a brain tumor, okay?" Rodney said, in a strangely small voice.

John's stomach clenched.

"What?"

"Headaches, sluggishness, buzzing in the ears. They're all symptoms of a brain tumor." John was about to snap that, yeah, they were all symptoms of a hang-over too, but Rodney didn't drink much and anyway his eyes were huge and his mouth was tight and John didn't doubt for a minute that he believed it.

John himself wasn't quite ready to go there yet, though.

He keyed his com and said, "Carson, Rodney and I are gonna meet you in the infirmary in ten minutes."

Carson didn't ask any questions, just agreeing to see them when they got there.

*

An hour later, Carson had proclaimed Rodney brain-tumor free.

"It's possible this is a lingering effect of withdrawal from the chemicals the Janxnuy gave you. In fact, that would be my official medical opinion. Your blood pressure's fine, you're sleeping again—I imagine it's just a case of waiting it out, lad."

"See? It's not a tumor," John said with satisfaction. Rodney scowled at him and didn't look appeased.

"It's not a baseless fear, Colonel. After Arcturus—I mean, who knows what kind of effects those particles could have on the human body." He peered anxiously into John's face. "In fact, seriously, you should have Carson give you the once over, too. Check your white blood count."

"Rodney, you and I practically get our blood drawn every 48 hours," John countered in a soothing tone, but Carson gave John an assessing look, and John felt a little nervous despite himself.

"Even so. He's not wrong, Colonel." He signaled to a nurse and patted the cot next to Rodney. "Up you go," and so John had blood drawn, too, while Rodney fretted beside him.

*

In the mess at dinner that night, while Rodney was reviewing some notes and complaining about Miko's "incredibly tiny" handwriting, Zelenka led a rebellious looking Simpson over to their table and said, "Rodney, Karen has something to say to you."

"I'm sorry you thought you had a brain tumor," she said stiffly.

"Uh. Okay," Rodney said.

"Tell him why you're sorry he thought he had a brain tumor," Zelenka prompted. She gave him a narrow-eyed glare but continued.

"The headaches may have had something to do with the fact that you've been drinking decaf for the last four days." She crossed her arms and smirked at him. "I switched your stash in the labs and I talked Shu and Morrison into serving you unleaded here in the cafeteria."

Rodney gaped at his current mug of java in horror and shoved it away from him as if he'd been poisoned.

"Conspiracy!" he yelped, stabbing a finger at Zelenka.

"I knew nothing of it until today," Zelenka said. He gave Simpson a small, disappointed shake of his head. "Never would I sanction such behavior. You do not tamper with a man's coffee. It is simply not done."

Simpson looked unrepentant, and John did his best not to laugh.

"I am here only to see that this dispute ends here, without further reprisal," Zelenka said gravely. "Rodney, you are sorry, I know, for speaking out of turn concerning topics you had no business repeating. Karen, you will return Rodney's coffee and see that this never happens again, yes?"

"Yes," Simpson bit out finally, and when Zelenka directed them to shake hands, they did so, although with a lot of suspicious glaring. The moment she left, Rodney sprinted to the food line and browbeat the hapless Morrison into brewing him a fresh pot, insisting that he open a new package of beans where Rodney could see him. He walked back to the table with exaggerated care, black coffee shivering to the very lip of the thick ceramic mug.

"Come to papa," he murmured tenderly, and threw his coffee back so hot John half expected steam to come curling out of his ears.

*

Part 2