Harlequin Challenge Part One by Cherry Ice

[cherryice.livejournal.com]

Title: Running Blind [1/2]

Author: cherryice

Pairing: Mainly Sheppard/McKay

Summary: Rodney McKay is a man on the run. John Sheppard find himself inexplicably drawn towards the scientist and gives him a place to hide -- but are John's secrets the ones that will destroy them?

Notes: Killing two challenges with one crack stone, here. This is also my entry in the Worst-Case Scenario challenge (how to survive being hit by a car), as well as being my first forray into SGA.


Running Blind

The first time John Sheppard sees Rodney McKay, Rodney is being struck by a car.

John is walking down the boardwalk, bare shoulders hot in the heavy afternoon sun. The wood echoes beneath his feet and the glare off the ocean penetrates the sunglasses perched on his nose. Everything smells like salt and sand, and all around him are men in swim trunks, women in sundresses, children with ice cream dripping melting in their cones and dripping down their hands.

The crash of surf is loud, as is the laughter of sunbathers. Radios spill overlapping stations out the open front doors of shops, the open patios of restaurants. The seagulls are swooping and cawing, and through this, John hears tires squeal.

The squeal of tires, then the rise and fall of the Doppler effect as a car tears by him. He turns to look as it goes because this is a pedestrian street more than anything – vehicles crawl and teenagers dart back and forth off the boardwalk, across the pavement. The car is a late-model Camry with tinted windows. Past him, paint glossy and flashing in the sun. John catches a flash of his reflection in windows, shadows beneath his eyes.

He looks pale beneath his tan, John has time to think before his brain catches up with him, because the car is bearing down on a man crossing the street just down the block. He doesn't get a good look at him, then, just a flash of brown and white.

A woman is screaming.

The first time John Sheppard sees Rodney McKay, he is a starfish outlined against a bright blue sky. There is no squeal of breaks.

The air is filled with brightly coloured paper a second late (pink and yellow and green) and the noise of wood cracking. John is running, flip-flops slapping against the boardwalk, and there are children crying.

What he expects (what he is preparing himself for, what he is remembering) is a tangled sprawl of limbs at awkward angles, flashes of blood and exposed bone. What he gets is a man with a rather dazed expression lying in the remains of a vendor cart.

Well, kind of lying in the remains.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John snaps, putting his hand on the man's chest and pushing him back down.

"I should think," the man says, blood trickling slowly into his eyes, "that that should be self-evident, even to one of the surfer subclass." His lips are compressed into a thin line, but he lets John push him back down into the – parasols. The broken remains of paper parasols.

"I don’t know if this escaped your attention, but you were just hit by a car," John says dryly. Runs his hands over the other man's limbs, checking for breaks. "Can you move your toes?"

"Can I move my – what kind of a question is that?" he asks, pushing John aside and scrambling to his feet. The blood shifts and runs down his left cheek.

"A perfectly valid one when you consider you were just hit by a car," a voice says, and John snaps his head up. There's a black man with dreads reholstering his cell phone and looking sadly at the broken cart and parasols.

"I jumped and tucked," the man says, taking a step forward before he starts to stagger. John catches his arm and settles him down on the curb. "Not exactly rocket science," he continues. "Protect the vital organs. Distribute the force. I came untucked in the air, but --" He puts his head down on his knees and his voice goes wobbly. "Don't know why they say 'not exactly rocket science,' anyway. Rocket science really isn't all that complicated if you have the slightest modicum of intelligence."

"You feel like calling an ambulance?" John asks the stall owner, gesturing at his cell phone.

"Already did," he says. "Shouldn't be long."

"I was just hit by a car," the man behind them says. "I was just. Oh, God. Did someone call the police?"

"It's okay," John says, sitting on the curb beside him. "Probably several someones by this point. I'm afraid I didn't catch the license plate on the car, but –"

John finds himself grabbed by the shoulders and yanked half-off the curb. "You don't understand," the other man says, face pale from more than blood loss (he hasn't lost that much blood, John is able to clinically note). "I can't go to the police."

"Look," John says, thinking about head wounds and disorientation, "The ambulance will be here soon, and the nice paramedics will take care of you."

"Look," the man says, fingers tightening painfully on John's shoulders. "Let me makes this very clear. I am, aside from possible internal hemorrhaging, fine. If you, in your inexplicable concern for my well-being, wish me to stay fine, you will get me out of here as quickly as possible."

"I think," John says, "that you need to see a doctor."

"You think?" the other man asks. "Oh, how novel. Would you like a prize?"

Deep breaths, John tells himself. Behind him, the stall owner makes a gravelly sort of noise that could be constituted as a laugh. "—that you need to see a doctor," he finishes.

"Luckily for both of us, I am a doctor," he replies. There's more blood in his eyes and he's blinking. His hands are shaking a bit. "Police, hospital? Best way to make sure that they find me."

Paranoia, John thinks.

"Please. I think that getting hit by a car pretty much justifies my paranoia."

Deep breaths, John tells himself. In the distance, he can hear sirens.

"Please," the other man asks him, and there is something naked in his eyes.

"I'll tell them I did not notice which direction you went in," the stall owner says. John notices only then the faded gang tattoo on his neck, wonders what this man knows about running.

"Fine," John says, getting a few drops of blood on his hands as he hauls the other man to his feet. "Not like I had anything else planned for today, anyway."

*

"McKay," he says, forehead against the window, John's t-shirt balled up and pressed to the side of his head.

"Pardon?" John asks, swinging the candy-apple red Silvardo between a Mustang and an SUV on the freeway. His surfboard is firmly attached to the rack.

"My name," he says. "Is Rodney McKay. Or was, if you keep driving like this."

"Relax," John says, thinking: beggars can't be choosers. "It's much safer to be on the side of one of these babies if something goes wrong. Force of the impact is partially absorbed by the crumpling of the material, and –"

"Thank you for that illuminating lesson," Rodney says. Blood has made its way through the t-shirt, and he isn't wearing his seat belt. "If I didn't have PhDs in things relating to physics, I might have found it vaguely interesting-ish. Take the next left."

John, grinning, steps on the gas and drifts leftward between two semis. Rodney makes undignified noises that might be swears in Russian.

*

The bellhop eyes them uneasily as they step into the hotel. John is shirtless and the drying seawater left his hair stiff and unruly with salt. Rodney has a rip in his t-shirt and dried blood on his face, but scowls fiercely enough that they are left alone.

"Not that I don't appreciate the ride," Rodney says as John trails after him across the lobby. "But I'm fine. And you're drawing attention to me. Attention which, may I point out, I do not need."

"Uh-huh," John says, and follows him into the elevator. "Because walking around with a heady wound doesn't make anyone bat an eye."

The elevator door slides closed and Rodney leans against the wall and crosses his arms. The head wound is really only a scratch, John can see now that it's stopped bleeding. Rodney left his t-shirt bloody on the front seat of the truck, wet on the leather.

"Floor?" John asks blandly, because Rodney is trying to appear badass but looks nothing but tired.

Rodney blinks.

"Look—" John says, ready to launch into a whole thing about how if Rodney passes out in the elevator or the hall, it'll be the ambulance anyway, and that would be a waste of a perfectly good t-shit.

"Twelfth," Rodney says, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall.

That was a waste of a perfectly good spiel, John thinks.

"Twelve. One – two," Rodney says. "Directly following eleven, which looks like a pair of surfboards, side by side. If that helps."

Deep breaths, John thinks, and doesn't push seven and nine as well, just to be contrary.

The ride is uninterrupted, and John takes the time to study Rodney. He looks unnatural at rest, uncomfortable in his clothes. There are hollows beneath his eyes that had to have taken months to develop. Board shorts and a worn MIT t-shirt expose pale skin tight with the beginnings of sunburn. If he's trying to blend in, John thinks, the change in attire has made him stand out more. The curve of his neck is curiously vulnerable.

The chime sounds, doors sliding open to the twelfth floor. John sticks his head out, checking the corridor for – well, he's not sure what, exactly, but something – and Rodney brushes past him.

"Thank you for the escort," he says, as John trails in his wake, "but I think," he says, as he pulls a keycard from his back pocket and swipes it, "that I can take it from—"

(Over Rodney's shoulder, John can see feathers drifting in the air, overturned tables, broken mirrors, slashed bedding, drawers upended all over the place.)

"—here."

*

Beckett's office is small but cozy. The walls are painted eggshell white, bright enough to give the illusion of more space and warm enough to be soothing. Most of the magazines in the waiting room are relatively current – genetics and modern medicine, subscriptions marked 'Carson Beckett' instead of 'Pegasus Practices.'

"John," Beckett says, stepping into the waiting room. He's wearing pained expression with his sweater and jeans, was already at home when John called, said: I have a situation, and I'm calling in a favour.

"How is he?" John asks.

"Blood sugar was a bit low," Beckett says. "I gave him some juice to bring it back up."

"And the head wound?"

Beckett snorts. "Three stitches. I've had wee children who complained less than he did."

"That," Rodney says, emerging from the examination room in one of Beckett's old t-shirts. The blood is gone from his face and neck, but his eyes are red-rimmed. "Is because they don't yet have the have the critical facilities to understand that medicine is so much voodoo."

"I'd like to keep him overnight for observation," Beckett continues, not breaking eye contact with John.

"No, you wouldn't," Rodney says. "My charm is too prickly for those of lesser intellects."

"I would feel better," Beckett says, "if I were to keep him overnight for observation. Just to be safe."

John feels the corner of his mouth start to twitch.

"An honest man," Rodney snorts. "So rare these days. I'll be in the truck." The bell rings as the door slams shut behind him, and John feels the twitching intensify.

"He really didn't want to come," John says by way of explanation.

"Aye," Beckett says. "I can certainly see that. How did you manage—"

"Parked the truck outside and refused to move. Turns out he's not very good at waiting."

"For some reason, John, that doesn't come as much of a shock to me. He's got a minor concussion, but I can't be sure as to the severity. Try to keep him awake."

John snorts. Clasps Beckett's shoulder. "Thanks for coming in. Tell your mother I'm sorry I interrupted dinner."

"It was meatloaf, John. I truly didn't mind the intrusion."

Beckett's mother was a damn fine lady, but her meatloaf was a known weapon of mass destruction.

"John," Beckett says when Sheppard is half way to the door. "What are you playing at, here?"

"Not playing, Carson," he says, standing by the door in another one of Beckett's old shirts. "And I can't see as how it's any of your business."

Beckett was a Company man, but missing family practice wasn't the only reason he left.

*

Rodney is sitting in the truck outside, one hand on the dash, the other hovering a half inch from the gauze taped over his stitches. He's staring out the window at where the stars would be if it weren't for the city lights. He doesn't say anything when John starts the truck and pulls out of the lot.

He's silent the entire drive, as the city drops away around them. His hands flicker across the dash and the hem of his borrowed t-shirt, dart towards the gauze and back again without touching it. If John keeps looking at him, it's just to make sure that he hasn't fallen asleep.

Rodney shakes his head when John finally pulls over and kills the engine. There is forest all around them, and the city lights are no more than a distant glow above the southeast tree line.

"Where –" Rodney starts, looking at John across the dark cab of the truck.

"My cabin," John tells him. His fingers are casually loose on the steering wheel because, really, what is there to be tense about?

"I don't know how they found me," Rodney says. His skin is pale enough that it shows through the dark, a blur of cheek and chin and gauze-wrapped wound. "I don't know."

And THAT, John realizes, is what is bothering Rodney. Not that they found him, but that he doesn’t know how. "We weren't followed out here," he says.

"And you know this how?"

"Because I was watching," John tells him. "Doesn't take a genius to spot someone following you on a long, straight road when you can see something like ten miles behind you."

"Why are you doing this?" Rodney asks. "What do you get out of it?"

John's fingers on the steering wheel tighten, white through his tan. "Like I said," he says, easily. "Didn't have anything else to do today."

*

The cabin is neat inside (a few clean dishes in the drip rack, a book on the coffee table, scribbled reminder stuck to the fridge), and when John turns on the lights they hurt his eyes. He figures it's probably worse for a guy with a concussion, so he dims them right away.

"Thanks," Rodney says, dropping into the couch. John drops down beside him, staring blankly at the Navajo blanket pinned to the wall and wondering what the ever-loving fuck he's doing. Rodney's leg is pressed against his, warm and reassuring. They're both wearing shorts, so John stares at the wall and thinks about something other than skin on skin and Rodney's restless hands.

"This is fun," Rodney says, finally. "This has all been fun, really, with the near-death experience and all, but I should go." He shifts on the couch but makes no real move to leave.

"Yeah," John says. "We'll have to do it again some time."

"Right," Rodney says, and he really does get up, pushes stiffly up and off of the couch, leaving John blinking.

"What are you doing?"

Rodney sighs. "Once again with the obvious questions."

John thinks he should probably be more offended, but Doctor Beckett is one of the smartest people he knows, and Rodney didn't have much respect for his intelligence, either.

"I'm leaving," Rodney elaborates. "Best for both of us, really. Thank you for all your help, but—"

"You're leaving?"

Rodney rolls his eyes. "It's always the pretty ones, isn't it?"

John's lip starts to twitch. "How, exactly were you planning on doing that?"

"Well," he says, "I thought that I'd hop into the truck—"

"That truck?" John asks, reaching into his pocket. "That uses these keys?"

"I have a PhD in mechanical engineering. Like I don't know hot to hotwire a truck."

"That truck, parked in these woods, that doesn't have a GPS system installed?"

Rodney stops with his hand on the door. "I don't suppose you'd like to draw me a map?"

"I'd rather you stayed the night, actually," John says. He's standing easily in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, barefoot on the tiled floor.

Rodney's eyes are curiously dark when he looks at him. "Look," he says. "I don't think you understand the possible danger here."

"I saw you get hit by a CAR," John says, voice low. Takes a measured step forward, then another.

"This selfless thing is really not something I'm good at," Rodney says. Stammers a bit as John invades his personal space. "It's really not, but I am trying, damn it. I am trying."

"Rodney," John says, standing close enough to touch, head tilted and wolfish smile. "Wouldn't you rather stay the night?"

"That question, aside from having a blatantly obvious answer, is blatantly unfair," Rodney says, obviously weakening. "Are you a natural blonde?"

"Besides," John continues. "Beckett said to keep you awake."

"Right," Rodney says, and John can hear him swallow, feel the heat from his nascent sunburn.

"Rodney," John says, leaning forward to whisper. "I'm not exactly being selfless here, either."

Rodney closes his eyes. "Right," he says again. Opens them. Wraps his hands in John's shirt and pushes him back against the wall.

"Right," John says. Rodney's body is covered with bruises and he's every bit as good with his mouth as John thought he would be. It's been a long time (too long, too tired, too hard) and John comes biting his lower lip, blood in his mouth and heart in his throat.

"Tell me a story," he says, when it's over, because Rodney's eyes are drifting shut.

"Don't know any," Rodney mumbles into the pillow, talks about string theory and quasars and white holes and Chopin until the sun spills in through the glass, trees waving in the window and casting shadows across his face.

*

Rodney takes disgustingly hot showers, steam wafting out the bathroom door and condensation clinging to the walls.

John puts on the clothes he pulls from the drawers without paying too much attention to them. The heat of the day is already making itself known, dew on the grass long since evaporated, and John scowls as he brushes his teeth. "You realize this isn't a sauna?" he asks, because really, guests should show some courtesy.

"I wondered why there weren't any rocks to pour water over," Rodney says from the behind the curtain. "You can't really appreciate a good, hot shower until your fifth grade teacher has made you walk across town when the radio says 'exposed skin freezes in seconds,' all so that you can go curling for gym class. Or until you end up in S..."

"Canadian?" John asks, thinks about Antarctica and pretends not to notice Rodney's censor. There's a second toothbrush, unopened in the cupboard and he thinks about removing it.

"As maple syrup." The water cuts out, and John presses a towel into the hand Rodney sticks out from behind the curtain. "Though I've never actually liked maple syrup much. Highly overrated."

"I have to head in to work," John says. "Just for a few hours."

"Great," Rodney says, emerging with his hair slicked to his head. "You can drop me off in the city."

"And?" John asks. "Then what?"

"I'll hope a train or a plane or an automobile," Rodney snaps.

"They'll be looking for you, won't they?"

"Of course they will," Rodney says. Grabs the second toothbrush and attacks his teeth. "All the more reason for me to keep on the move. Look, it's been fun –"

Rodney's back is mottled black and blue and white, and he has carefully patted his stitches dry.

"I was hoping you'd stay for a few days," John says. Places a hand on the other man's spine, fingers spread around the bruises. Rodney's pause is almost imperceptible. "Let them think you've moved on, and take off when they're looking for you elsewhere."

Rodney finishes brushing his teeth, stands with his arms braced on the sink. "Don't you want to know why they're after me?" he asks.

Deep breaths.

"You'll tell me," John says. Doesn't tighten his hand into a fist. "When you're ready."

Rodney stares at where his refection would be if it weren't obscured by condensation. "Just a day or two," he says, finally.

"Good," John says, smiling with his voice if not his eyes. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Rodney snorts. "I'm sure all the children would be devastated if their surfing instructor didn't show up."

John grins. "No, but Kavanagh's going to get out of hand if I'm not around to check his math."

Rodney blinks. "You—"

"Work at a think tank." He can see the gear turning in Rodney's head, assumptions shifting and realigning.

John turns his head from the sight. He has a job to do.

*

John drives too fast into the city, windows down and System of a Down too loud on the stereo. He buys Tylenol, Advil, at the store (thinks of Rodney's back and his stitches, doesn't grab Aspirin), chocolate bars, a bottle of scotch.

He sits in the parking lot for a long time, staring at his hands on the wheel in the heat reflecting off the blacktop, then drives back home.

When he gets back, Rodney is working on the laptop John assumes is supposed to be his. He wonders what his high score is in Minesweeper, if he has porn hidden on it somewhere. There are papers scattered around the living room, covered in equations written in black pen. John tries not to look at them too closely.

Rodney waves distractedly at him, mouth cocked sideways and muttering under his breath about the stupidity of people in general.

John finds it comforting.

Rodney has a series of scars on the left side of his chest. They are healed but still pink, and he flinches when John touches them.

*

The next day, when John says he's going into work, he goes to the office. The office is air conditioned, of course. He feels out of place and chilled in his shorts and t-shirt, used to the press of a suit coat and pressure of a tie.

"Afternoon, sir," Ford says. The paperwork on his desk is neatly stacked and filed, a sharp contrast to Sheppard's, which is coated liberally in folders and memos.

"Good afternoon," Sheppard says, dropping into his chair. The leather raises goose bumps on his arms. He flips through the first folder absently, and tries not to notice that his partner is studiously ignoring him. "Not going to ask how it's going?" he asks, finally.

"No need to, sir," Ford says, looking pointedly at Sheppard's swollen lip, his neck. John reaches up self consciously, rubbing at the junction of neck and shoulder. "The hickey," Ford says, "speaks volumes."

"Damn it," John says, voice low. The office door is closed, but – "You agreed. This was the only way. You know we need –"

"With all due respect, sir," Ford says, "I never agreed with this, and there's always another way."

"The Russians –"

"The FSB hasn't sunk this low yet. Sir."

"Right," Sheppard says, and stands. The file is thick between his fingers, and Ford makes him feel ancient and much too worldly. "Anything new?"

"Nothing, really," Ford says, still typing. "An agent in the mid-west picked up a bit of chatter, but nothing solid. I'll let you know if anything comes up."

"Right," John says, and puts the file down on the desk. DOCTOR RODNEY MCKAY, it says. The picture clipped to the front stares at him long after he has left the room.


Part Two

Comments

[zulu.livejournal.com]

Da da dum! The plot thickens. Whee!

[misspamela.livejournal.com]

Ohh! Oh!

*runs for the next part*

[cjandre.livejournal.com]

OMG! I'm not sure where my plot sense was, but I actually wasn't expecting john to be still ACTIVE CIA. I thought he was going to be retired.

Oh, damn.

Poor Rodney.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

"Damn it," John says, voice low. The office door is closed, but – "You agreed. This was the only way. You know we need –"

Oh, *dude*! Man.

I had a weird suspicion that there had to be something more to John's job, that there had to be something a little dodgy about it, but I really wasn't expecting that.

I need to find out what happens next. *scurries to the next part*

[maiyav.livejournal.com]

Okay.

Famous last words?

Oh, shit.

[verydustycups.livejournal.com]

"Are you a natural blonde?"

ahahahaha - I laughed so hard

*tries to picture Sheppard with blonde hair and fails miserably*

I just can't do it! Very excellent fic, though, especially that ending. Off to read the next part...

[an-kayoh.livejournal.com]

Man, I haven't even read this yet but you hit Rodney with a car! Sweet!