Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the age of twelve, Rodney McKay had mastered all of the physical sciences. Admittedly, there wasn't much to them yet, as Rodney was so eager to point out when he pleaded with his father to allow him to go to Germany and join Robert Bunsen at Heidelberg in the exciting work of isolating chemical elements or to brave the streets of London while assisting Michael Faraday (Rodney's hero) in his vital experiments on electricity. Jack McKay, the wealthiest and most famous merchant in all of Europe, simply laughed and suggested that Rodney wait till he was older.

He said exactly the same thing when Rodney asked to be sent to Oxford (at twelve years and four months) so he could finally make some progress in his studies after yet another tutor stormed out of the house in tears.

When Rodney (at twelve years and ten months) pleaded for a new addition to be built onto the house to accommodate a lab, Jack rolled his eyes and noted that there was plenty left to master in mathematics, all of which could be done in the same schoolroom Rodney had used since he was three. Rodney muttered a few curses he had learned from his father's sailors, but went back to his room to teach himself calculus.

As it turned out, mathematics interested Rodney about as much as the Latin lessons his parents had foisted on him. Like Latin, math was useless in and of itself - it only became practical when applied to other disciplines. After the initial thrill that came from learning the mathematical formulae behind astronomy and physics, Rodney found himself in the lamentable position of learning simply for the sake of learning. As his massive brain absorbed pointless information, Rodney himself became more and more snappish, until the servants were on the point of rebellion and even Jack was starting to look stern.

Jeannie, Rodney's mother and the most beautiful woman in the city, was the one who finally intervened. She did so in her usual dramatic fashion: one day when Rodney was fourteen and in the midst of berating his latest (and, as it turned out, last) tutor for being unbearably stupid, Jeannie marched in, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged him to her greenhouse. "Welcome to your new lab," she announced.

Rodney turned in a slow circle, stupefied. "But-but it's botany," he declared in horror.

Jeannie grinned. "And I trust you'll excel at it." She turned to leave. At the door, she stopped and called over her shoulder, "You might want to start with roses. They're a very forgiving plant."

Rodney whimpered in reply.

To Rodney's surprise, botany turned out to not be awful; if nothing else, it allowed him to perform as many hands-on experiments as he wanted. Rodney's reputation as a student had spread, making it impossible to find a botany tutor, but it didn't take him long to learn the basics of gardening through trial and error. Jeannie kept an eye on him until he proved that he wasn't going to inadvertently destroy any of her more delicate favorites. Once he was given free reign, however, he quickly took over most of the greenhouse with his cuttings and graftings and seedlings.

Jeannie's first recommendation proved to be prophetic - Rodney fell in love with roses. They were an ideal plant for a budding genius botanist: easy to work with, and possessing limitless potential. With over a thousand species to at his disposal, Rodney felt like an artist with a blank canvas and an endless variety of ink. What did it matter that his overpaid piano tutor had told him he was without passion? Rodney would find his art in plants.

Most roses of the day were fragrant and had many petals, but the flowers were small. Rodney was determined to produce a bud that was both large and sweet-smelling. Where possible, he intended to focus on color as well - he especially loved hard-to-find dark reds and pure whites, precisely because they were so rare.

His first significant success came two years later. The rose was large, had as many as thirty petals, and could be smelled from across a crowded room. The color wasn't quite right: instead of the deep yellow he had hoped for, the petals were a light yellow, edged with red. Still, the dual-color effect was striking and Jeannie was enthusiastic in her praise. Three days after Jeannie told Rodney and Jack that she was pregnant again, Rodney decided to name the rose after her. He thought it was a noble gesture, one that the knights of yore might have offered, had they bred roses in their spare time. He was sixteen.

Nine months later, Jeannie McKay died in childbirth.

Rodney suddenly found himself in charge of all of the household matters his mother had handled before her death and, as Jack was half-mad with grief, Rodney was tasked with the day-to-day welfare of his infant sister as well. Rodney had never had much to do with household management or children before his mother's death, but for once he embraced his ignorance as it made it easier to bury his own grief in work. Orchestrating dinners for well-meaning but unwanted guests, supervising the servants and issuing their wages, finding a wet nurse and insuring that baby Jeannie was healthy and safe - all of these tasks took time to learn and implement and Rodney found himself exhausted as he dropped into bed each night.

Jeannie's death seemed to have placed a pall over all aspects of McKay life. At home, small incidents happened with unnerving frequency: dishes broke almost daily, food spoiled even in the icebox Rodney had built, servants (including the wet nurse) were offered higher-paying positions and left without giving notice. Even Rodney's experiments in the greenhouse failed, with most of the grafts dying on the stem and an improbably high percentage of the surviving hybrids taking the worst traits from each parent plant. In the end, a whole generation of roses had to be destroyed.

Though Jack never said anything, Rodney knew that the bad luck had carried to the shipping company as well. There were a record number of storms in the Pacific that year, but while inferior ships managed to survive the high seas, the McKay shipping fleet, the finest in all of Europe, was decimated ship by ship. As they received word of each loss, Jack sank further and further into despair.

Five months after his seventeenth birthday, Rodney's world fell apart with the news that the Daedalus, the last of Jack McKay's fleet, had been lost in a wild storm. Jack collapsed, and was taken to bed a broken man. Creditors swarmed at the door, demanding immediate payment on outstanding bills that had weeks, even months, before they were due. Other merchants, always envious of Jack's success, flocked to the house claiming to offer support but in reality there simply to gloat.

Rodney drove away the vultures with his usual tact and later, though he never regretted his caustic words and scathing diatribes, he had to admit that their ignominious departure from the City might have been easier if he had been less blunt. As it was, he had no one to help him with the preparations or the packing. Even the servants had abandoned them in the end.

Rodney's only consolation during this time was his roses. No matter how many experiments failed, the familiar acts of tending his plants soothed him and gave him something to look forward to during the long days of strife. With each brutal revelation - failure of the business, bankruptcy, loss of the house - Rodney buried himself deeper into his plants. He comforted himself with the knowledge that while the rest of the world may be turning against him and his family, these plants would never betray them.

Perhaps it was that faith that saved them in the end. Perhaps their bad luck had finally run its course. Or, as Rodney secretly thought, perhaps it was simply statistically impossible for every aspect of their lives to go wrong without at least one thing going right. Whatever the reason, be it fate or science, salvation came in the form of a letter a week before the house and all of its possessions were to be auctioned off.

The letter was addressed to Jack and came from Dr. Carson Beckett, a world-famous doctor who traveled the world researching advances in medicine and, incidentally, the godfather of both Jeannie McKays. In it, he apologized for the delay in his condolences - he had been studying with the embryologist Alexander Onufrievich Kovalevsky in Russia and had not heard of Jeannie's death until his return to Europe. Rodney, who had accepted enough condolences in the previous year to have decided that the entire concept of sympathy for the dead was useless, was about to discard the letter when the last paragraph caught his attention:

"Though it will never compare to your beautiful mansion, I found my little Russian hideaway to be quite snug. As I was unable to find a buyer before leaving the country, it is still in my possession and it occurs to me that little Rodney may wish to travel before buckling down to the pressures of University. If he is interested, my doors are open to him."

Putting aside the 'little Rodney' comment for the time being, Rodney re-read the rest of the paragraph, the black doom on his heart lifting with every word. For the first time since his mother's death, something was going right.

That night, Rodney found a miracle in the greenhouse. After nearly a year of failed experiments, he had begun to think that he was as talentless at rose breeding as he was at the piano, but what he saw that night redeemed him. Only with an effort was he able to hold back tears of joy.

The bud was large and perfectly shaped and even though it was still tightly closed, its heady perfume filled the greenhouse. These alone would have been considered a success by any rose breeder. Taking into account its color, it was truly spectacular.

Rodney moved closer, mesmerized by the deep, rich red. It was the color of burgundy wine, of garnets and rubies, of the dark, mysterious lifeblood that had carried his sister into this world and sentenced his mother to the next. The rose's color was deep as the ocean and dark as the night sky. It was mesmerizing, and awe-inspiring, and utterly unlike any flower ever bred before. It was the work of brilliance, for only a genius could produce a rose this exquisite. A tear escaped then, a tiny droplet of relief that ran down Rodney's cheek and dampened his collar. Rodney, dazzled by the beauty he had created, never even noticed.

ooo

Dr. Beckett proved to be surprisingly amenable to the idea of giving up his Russian house to the McKay family, though of course they used different phrasing. In the flurry of letters that hammered out the details of the arrangement, the McKay family was simply looking after the house until Dr. Beckett's return. Both sides both knew, however, that Dr. Beckett wouldn't be returning to Russia. Frankly, Rodney was still trying to comprehend why someone would move to Russia in the first place. He couldn't think of anything that would make someone voluntarily live in a frozen wasteland - aside from financial ruin, of course - but he kept up the pretense that they were just taking the house temporarily. It protected the tiny house from creditors, at any rate.

The only difficulty was how to pay for the move. All of Jack's assets, from his small amount of liquid capital, to the house and all its contents, were the legal property of the creditors. All the McKays were permitted were personal items and even then only those personal items that were not too valuable. Jeannie McKay's jewelry, which had disappeared from the house during the estate sale, had been claimed as trade for debt. Despite the legal ambiguity of the claim, possession proved nine-tenths of the law. So went their last chance of paying for the move with their own funds.

Just as Rodney had resigned himself to the necessity of appealing once again to Dr. Beckett's largess, a knock on the door changed everything.

The butler had long since abandoned them; in fact, he had been the one to poach the wet nurse. As a result, Rodney had been reduced to answering his own door. How the mighty have fallen, he thought with a sardonic smile as he answered the door.

A stranger stood on the other side. Even before she spoke, her clothes marked her as a foreigner. Unlike the fitted dresses currently in fashion, the woman wore a long tunic over loose trousers. Rodney stared at that. Society women weren't even supposed to know what trousers were called, much less wear them.

The woman herself could have been beautiful, if she were not so thin. Rodney had seen beggars on the street with more meat on their bones. However, she didn't carry herself like a starving woman, her hair was thick and shiny, and when she spoke, her voice carried the understated confidence of a woman of means. "Hello. I am looking for Rodney McKay."

"I'm Rodney," Rodney said, trying to place her accent. It didn't sound like any he'd ever heard before, which was surprising considering the number of countries his various tutors had come from. "Are you sure you're looking for me and not my father? Jack McKay?"

The woman frowned. "Are you the Rodney McKay who bred the Jeannie rose?"

Rodney couldn't help it. His chest puffed up and his chin lifted higher. "I am."

The woman smiled. "Then you are the man I seek. May I come in? I was hoping we could do business."

Rodney chest collapsed in a rush as he realized where this was going. However, they needed the money more than Rodney needed his roses. "Of course," he said quietly. "Please, come in."

The woman introduced herself as Elizabeth Jones. Rodney offered her tea, before realizing that even if they had tea in the house, which he doubted, he didn't know how to make it. Fortunately, she declined his offer and asked to see the roses. Rodney felt an immediate and irrational desire to tell her that they weren't available, that his roses had died of rose rust and the greenhouse was quarantined to protect the city's rose supply.

Of course he didn't say that. Of course, he led her to the greenhouse, his heart pounding harder with every painful step. And, of course, the first thing she saw on entering was his miracle rose. "Oh." Elizabeth walked toward the rose as if in a trance. "This is beautiful."

Rodney gritted his teeth. "Thank you."

"What's it called?"

It was a question he had been fighting with for the last few days. Once Elizabeth asked, however, the answer came easily. "The McKay rose." Because, while it may kill him to give up his greatest achievement, at least Rodney could be assured that his family's name would be remembered for something other than ignominious failure.

Elizabeth nodded as if she understood. "I would like to purchase this bush."

Of course she would. Anyone with an ounce of taste would. Rodney nodded, trying to swallow down the thick knot in his throat.

"I will give you one hundred pounds for it."

Rodney blanched. One hundred pounds. One hundred pounds! Not only would that be enough to get them to Russia, they would have some left over to begin their new lives. For a long moment, he was overwhelmed with a potent mixture of relief and despair and it was all he could do to continue to breathe.

Elizabeth mistook his hesitation. "Two hundred pounds, then, if you include the Jeannie roses." She gestured to the three pots arranged around the McKay rose. The Jeannie rose was gaining a reputation, but Rodney knew he would never have been able to sell a Jeannie rosebush for more than ten or fifteen pounds.

Which meant the McKay rose was being sold for over a hundred and fifty pounds. Families could live for a whole year on a hundred and fifty pounds.

Rodney forced his numb lips to move. "Yes. Of course, yes."

Elizabeth smiled. "Excellent. I'll send someone by in an hour to collect the plants. He will also bring payment."

Rodney swallowed hard and blinked several times in response to the stinging in his eyes. "I'll watch for him."

"I know you will," Elizabeth said. She turned and walked away, forcing Rodney to follow.

True to her word, a knock echoed through the house a little less than an hour later. Rodney opened it to discover a large man covered from head to foot in a massive cloak. Judging from the visible lump on the man's back and the way the hood covered most of the man's face, Rodney guessed that Elizabeth's manservant closely resembled Quasimodo, though he couldn't see through the shadow of the hood to tell for certain.

Still, the money the man handed over with a gloved hand was genuine, so Rodney reluctantly led the man to the greenhouse. Despite his deformity, the man was obviously strong, as he scooped up all four pots with only his right arm without difficulty or complaint. In fact, the man said nothing at all, not at the door, not in the greenhouse, and not at the gate as Rodney let him out onto the street. Perhaps his vocal cords were as mangled as his body.

As soon as the gate was shut, Rodney put the strange man out of his mind and did his best to forget about his beautiful roses as well. They were now a part of his past. If the McKay family was going to survive this ordeal, Rodney was going to have to focus on the future.

ooo

The trip to Russia was hellish. While train travel was cheaper, faster, and smoother than going by carriage, it still wasn't ideal for long journeys, especially with an infant to consider. Rodney was already uncomfortable when in small enclosed spaces, and he found being crammed onto a tiny wooden bench with Jack, Jeannie, and all of their luggage to be nigh intolerable. Since there were no lights, he wasn't even able to distract himself by reading, so he spent most of each day with his eyes closed, pretending he was somewhere, anywhere else.

The lack of bathrooms was another obstacle that Rodney hadn't considered when making their arrangements. Jack had purchased a long tube that ran down the inside of his trousers and could be accessed with a minimal amount of disarray in his clothing when answering the call of nature. He wasn't the only one with such a contraption and, in fact, many women had chamber pots tucked into their wicker baskets, but Rodney couldn't bring himself to use either option. Instead, dashed out of the train at each stop, relieved his bursting bladder, and then jumped back on board, out of breath and with seconds to spare. Fellow passengers seemed amused by this, but Rodney just scowled at them till they turned away.

Food was another challenge. Rodney had brought a large basket that he and Jack filled up every couple of days, which provided an adequate, if not particularly varied diet. However, Jeannie presented a greater difficulty. At first, Rodney had tried a baby bottle equipped with a Pratt's rubber nipple, but Jeannie didn't like it and, anyway, after a few days it started to smell. In the end, they used a series of wooden nipples, primarily because they were cheap, though imperfect. A few times a nursing mother took pity on them and gave Jeannie a meal. On those occasions, Rodney thought that maybe the human race was salvageable after all.

Despite his every attempt to save them, the cuttings Rodney had taken from the Jeannie and McKay roses died in transit. When it became clear that they were gone, Rodney unwrapped them from the moist towel he had been carrying them in, and tucked the cuttings into his wallet. They remained there for the rest of the trip, held in place directly over his heart.

At the last stop, nearly three weeks after they had left the city, Jack and Rodney hauled their luggage down to the station platform and looked around in bewilderment. Rodney had expected something bigger, more impressive. Or at least something with a ticket booth. Instead they got a couple of pieces of wood in the middle of an open field of snow. The only sign of civilization was a short, skinny man with fly-away hair sitting on a rickety wagon, flipping through a handful of letters. "Well," Rodney said. "This is a disappointment."

Jack frowned, but didn't say anything. He hadn't said much after the death of his wife, and Rodney suspected that silence had become a habit. Rodney made a special effort to speak enough for two, to make up the difference.

"Hello," the man in the wagon said. He spoke with an atrocious accent. "I am Radek Zelenka. Dr. Beckett asked me to pick you up."

Rodney eyed the man. The wild hair implied youth, but the spectacles indicated age. Rodney decided Zelenka was probably just a few years older than him, though no doubt decades behind Rodney mentally. Still, maybe they would one day become friends, which would give Rodney one more friend here than he had ever had in the city.

"I do not wish to rush you," Zelenka said. "But we have a long ride ahead. Surely you could continue to insult my country just as well from the wagon."

Then again, friends were overrated. "It's not an insult if it's true," Rodney snapped. "Come down here and help us with the luggage."

Zelenka crossed his arms. "I do not think so."

Rodney rolled his eyes, but it wasn't like he could haul the man down and force him to work. At least, not without upsetting Dr. Beckett. "Fine. Then could you at least hold the baby?"

Zelenka considered that, then held out his arms. Rodney passed Jeannie over with relief. She was growing like weed and his arms ached from a solid three weeks of holding a bored, squirming child.

Jack never held Jeannie. He didn't even look at her.

"She's a beautiful baby," Zelenka said, supporting Jeannie's weight easily, despite the fact that she looked enormous in his arms. Rodney wondered if all Russians were as small as this man. It didn't seem possible.

"Her name's Jeannie," Rodney grunted as he and Jack heaved the largest trunk onto the wagon. The wagon's springs squeaked alarmingly, but fortunately didn't collapse. "She's a hellion," he added as he went back for the smaller bags. "But she doesn't cry much."

"Ah, the best kind of woman," Zelenka said, giving the tip of his finger to Jeannie to suck. Jeannie looked at it in disdain, and then vomited all over him.

Rodney swore and hurried over. "I knew that milk smelled sour."

Amazingly, Zelenka didn't seem to be upset. "She is fine," he said, mopping at his face and clothes with a handkerchief. "And feeling better now, I believe."

As a matter of fact, she did look better, the tight face that had accompanied the last hour of the trip gone, replaced by a happy smile and bright eyes. "Oh," Rodney said. "Well. Good." He watched as Jeannie's perfect little hands grasped for Zelenka's fingers. "She likes you," Rodney said, feeling a little lost. Zelenka raised his eyebrows. Rodney explained, "Normally she doesn't like anyone."

"Ah, a lady with taste." Zelenka leaned down until his head was just a few inches above Jeannie's. "We shall be great friends, I think."

Jeannie gurgled happily in response and Rodney had to force himself not to snatch her back. Instead, he helped Jack with the last of the bags, and climbed up sit next to Zelenka. "I'll take her now," he said tightly and was relieved when Zelenka handed her back with nothing more than an odd glance.

The next six hours (six hours to the nearest train station! Clearly Dr. Beckett had strange ideas of what constituted civilization) passed surprisingly quickly. Jack sat silently in the back with the luggage, which made things awkward at first, but after a few tentative attempts at conversation Rodney and Zelenka stumbled upon a mutual interest in Alexander Borodin. With the help of a network of correspondents based in St. Petersburg, Zelenka had been following Borodin's work in organic chemistry. He was especially impressed with Borodin's research into aldehydes. Rodney, who had little interest in chemistry, aside from a completely understandable fascination with the pure simplicity of chemical elements, was far more interested in Borodin's compositions. Zelenka hadn't even known that Borodin composed music, and they argued over which field was most important all the way through the interminable forest that surrounded their destination.

Considering its isolation, the village was surprisingly large. According to Zelenka, it was the hub for several farming communities between ten and thirty miles away. Rodney was not impressed.

That first night they got in too late to consider trying to move into a new home, so they stayed at the Pegasus Inn in the village center. The Pegasus was not only the finest inn in a hundred miles, it was the only inn in a hundred miles. Not surprising. When the village center consisted of a patch of grass to feed the local domesticated reindeer, an intelligent man quickly learned to revise his assumptions.

The Pegasus was run by Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex, who were not married (as Rodney was emphatically told by Teyla, Ronon (via grunts, as he didn't appear to speak English), and Zelenka), but who were obviously in a relationship that would not have been considered respectable in the city. Rodney decided that he didn't care, primarily because the stifling social mores of the day were obviously transient and inconsequential, and maybe a little because it was obvious that Teyla could impart significant damage to Rodney's person. Using only her little finger.

The inn itself was cleaner than Rodney had anticipated and there were enough beds that he and Jack didn't have to share. The real surprise, however, was when Ronon dragged a cradle into Rodney's room. It was full of colorful, homemade quilts and a beautiful wooden rattle, and though Ronon still managed to take up most of the room by himself, he didn't look quite as intimidating when playing a rattle for a baby. Rodney rolled his eyes. He and Jack would probably never fit in, but Jeannie was obviously going to have the whole village conquered before the week was out.

The next day, Teyla accompanied them to the house, which was at the end of a long lane at the very outskirts of the village, flush against the forest. 'House' might have been too impressive a word for the structure. 'Cottage' seemed more apt. Or 'hovel'. Still, it had four walls and Teyla assured them that the roof was sound. At least it was better than the train.

The first few weeks were a blur of cleaning, building and repairing, and learning Russian. As it turned out, Rodney was terrible at Russian. Unlike Latin and French, there was a whole new alphabet to learn, and unlike Greek, the alphabet was like nothing Rodney had ever seen before. Worse, it sounded like nothing Rodney had never previously heard. Half the time he couldn't tell where words began and ended, much less what they meant. By the end of their first month, all of Rodney's potential teachers aside from Teyla had given up on him. By the end of their first year, Rodney could say 'yes' and 'no' and comprehend simple sentences and Teyla declared that it was impossible to teach him any further.

By that time, Jeannie had begun to speak, and she was bilingual from the start. Her first word was "no". Her second was "nyet". Everyone in the village thought it was charming. Rodney knew better. She was still a hellion. Still, she was a bilingual hellion, which proved to be useful, since the proceeds from Rodney's roses weren't going to last forever and they needed to be able to communicate with others in order to work.

At first, Rodney had thought he'd be able to earn a living by teaching, but his failed language lessons put an end to those plans. Then he had decided he would use his experience in botany to make money. The surrounding farmers weren't impressed.

Finally he resigned himself to the inevitable: he was going to have to work in the fields. Rodney gritted his teeth and went back to the farmers, only to make the galling discovery that no one would hire him. By the end of a long day of rejections, Rodney's limited patience had long since been exhausted. He stomped into the inn. "Russia is a virulent pustule on the ass of civilization."

"Funny, I have similar saying about Britain."

Rodney turned to glare at Zelenka, who was sitting at one of the tables near the door, eating a bowl of borscht. "Ha," Rodney said flatly.

Zelenka shrugged. "Difficult day?"

Rodney tried to come up with something cutting, but he was tired and his feet hurt, so he just sighed and slumped down into the chair opposite Zelenka's. "Yes. The incompetent fools running the local farms clearly have no eye for potential."

"Hm," Zelenka said. He waved at the bar, and a moment later, Teyla showed up with another bowl of borscht.

Rodney swallowed thickly. "Thank you."

They ate for a few moments in silence. "Could you repair a pocketwatch?" Zelenka asked suddenly.

"Of course," Rodney said. Probably. How hard could it be for a genius?

"Hm," Zelenka said again.

Rodney didn't hit him, because Zelenka was the blacksmith's apprentice and even midget blacksmiths were scarily strong. "Do you have a broken pocketwatch?" he asked pointedly.

"I might."

And, because Zelenka was an evil bastard, that was all he would say.

The next day, Zelenka showed up at the (diplomatically designated) cottage with a large, scary-looking man in tow. "Rodney McKay, meet Acastus Kolya," Zelenka said in English. Then he turned to Kolya and repeated the sentiment, only in Russian. Rodney frowned, as even he could have handled an introduction in Russian, but didn't say anything. Yet. Once he was alone with Zelenka, however, he would be getting some answers.

Kolya let out a long stream of Russian, which Zelenka translated as: "Mr. Kolya has a pocketwatch he wishes you to repair. It was his father's pocketwatch and has great sentimental value." His hands twitched, the way they did when Rodney said something that he found particularly irritating, but he didn't look at Koyla as he finished with, "He would be very disappointed should any harm come to this pocketwatch while it is in your care."

Okay. Rodney eyed Kolya, who was looking Rodney up and down with something disturbingly close to a leer on his lips. Rodney swallowed and hid his hands behind his back when they curled into fists. More than anything, he wanted to be able to send this creepy man away from himself and his home and his sister, but they needed the money and Rodney didn't see any other way to get it. So he held out his hand and took the watch. "I won't damage it."

A quick flurry of translation. "See that you don't."

Rodney swallowed hard and nodded. Then he forced himself to address the most important issue. "About payment-"

"I will pay you one hundred and fifty rubles," Koyla interrupted with heavily accented, but perfectly serviceable English. Zelenka looked as dismayed as Rodney felt.

"O-okay," Rodney stammered. "A week. I'll have it ready in a week."

Koyla nodded and, thankfully, left. Rodney turned on Zelenka. "What-who-what-"

"He is a famous general," Zelenka sighed. "And very dangerous man. I would not have brought him if I could see any alternative. Be careful, Rodney."

Rodney nodded. He would be very careful indeed.

As soon as Zelenka left, Rodney dragged one of the small end tables and a chair out of the small, dark house and proceeded to take advantage of the sunlight to dismantle the watch. Using a tiny set of tools he had managed to save from the estate sale in the city, Rodney removed layer after layer of cogs, gears, and springs, pausing between each layer to memorize the layout before going further. He may not be able to fix the watch, but he wasn't about to return it in worse shape than when he received it.

Rodney had always had an instinct for seeing the solution to problems, even though he often didn't have the skills required to put the solution into effect. In this instance, he immediately saw that the watch was filled with dust, which had thickened the oil between the gears to an immovable paste. It would be a tedious process to clean all of the minute parts without damaging or losing any, but a week was more than enough time to complete the repair.

Fortunately, Rodney wasn't a procrastinator, because Koyla showed up at his door four days after giving Rodney a week to complete his task. This time he came alone and Rodney found himself in the unusual position of wishing Zelenka lived closer to the cottage. "Do you have my watch?"

"You're early," Rodney said pointedly. "Fortunately, I am a genius. I finished the repairs yesterday."

Kolya simply grunted in reply and when Rodney turned into the cottage to get the watch, Kolya walked in behind. Rodney swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of Jack standing near the sink, chopping vegetables, and Jeannie on the floor, playing with a wooden rattle Ronon had made for her. Kolya sneered, though Rodney wasn't sure if it was in disgust at the house, or at Jack doing women's work. Rodney didn't particularly care either way; no one sneered in this house but him. "Here's the watch," he said abruptly, but instead of handing it over, he walked outside.

A moment later, Kolya followed. Rodney stifled a sigh of relief, and promptly choked on it when Kolya reached out to brush his fingers over Rodney's cheek. His head involuntarily jerked back, causing Kolya to frown. It was a very scary frown.

Trying to smooth the moment over, Rodney handed Kolya the watch. "Good as new," he announced. Better, really, but he didn't want to drag this conversation out any longer than absolutely necessary.

Kolya took the watch, his fingers brushing against Rodney's palm, even though Rodney had deliberately held the watch with his fingertips to prevent such a touch. With an effort, Rodney didn't shudder, though as Kolya inspected his watch, Rodney took advantage of the distraction to shuffle back a few steps. Kolya's eyes flashed when he looked back up, and Rodney realized he had been too obvious. Nothing could be done for it now though, so he attempted to appear oblivious.

"Thank you," Kolya said, sounding anything but grateful. "I have been given orders to engage the enemy in the Balkans. I would hate to have gone without my father's watch."

The news that Kolya would soon be far, far away caused a wave of relief to wash over Rodney. He just managed to keep his voice level when he answered, "Really. That's - uh - that's too bad. Good luck."

Kolya's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Instead he held out a thick roll of banknotes. Despite himself, Rodney brightened and reached for the money. Kolya immediately drew it back, out of Rodney's reach. Rodney seethed silently. "Perhaps we might meet again, on my return."

Rodney's stomach dropped. He didn't like the sound of that. On the other hand, Kolya was paying very well for this job, and Rodney couldn't afford to offend him. "I'm always available for repairs," he finally said by way of compromise.

Kolya gave him a smile that seemed to be all teeth. "I look forward to it." He held out the money again and this time when Rodney reached for it, he didn't pull away.

Rodney tried to return the smile, but suspected that it came out as more of a grimace. "Good luck," he repeated, for lack of anything better to say. Without waiting for a reply, Rodney turned and fled into the house.

Reports of Rodney's success with Kolya's pocketwatch spread quickly and while Rodney wasn't thrilled that his name was said so often in connection with Kolya's, he was grateful for the work. A wide variety of damaged items gradually made its way to his cottage: injured tools, broken jewelry, damaged instruments. Anything too delicate for Zelenka, or too complex for Ronon (who did simple carpentry work for the village) eventually made an appearance at Rodney's door. In a community as poor as this one there wasn't an enormous demand for Rodney's talents, but between the repairs, the odd jobs for Teyla or Zelenka, and the impressive results of Rodney's rapidly expanding vegetable garden, the McKay family managed to make do.

Meanwhile, Jeannie continued to charm everyone she encountered and Rodney found himself trying to single-handedly correct the tyrannical behavior of a little girl spoiled by an entire village. Teyla managed to keep a level head and could be trusted to keep an eye on Jeannie any time Rodney had to go out of the village for a repair, but everyone else simply poured fuel on the fire. Zelenka was especially egregious, caving in to every demand like a particularly ill-built house of cards. Rodney had had to place the entire forge off-limits when he found Zelenka showing Jeannie how to make a horse-shoe, Jeannie's little fingers wrapped around the handle of a tiny hammer, which she was using to fervently bang away at red-hot iron. Zelenka claimed that the idea had been his alone, but Rodney knew better. Jeannie hadn't even tried to lie about who was to blame; she never did, in fact, which was her saving grace.

When Jeannie turned fourteen, Rodney took her to the inn for a tea cake that Teyla had learned to make especially for the occasion (proving that not even Teyla was entirely immune to Jeannie's charms). They were negotiating beverages (Jeannie seemed to think she could convince someone to let her try mead, Rodney was in favor of juice, and they were probably going to end up with tea) when a loud rumble filled the air. Rodney looked up in confusion. It almost sounded like a train rushing past a station...

The earth suddenly heaved, tossing tables and people like toys. Rodney was slammed against the bar, and a chair crashed into his head, and suddenly everything went black.

ooo

Rodney's first thought when he came to was Jeannie. She had been next to him when the earthquake struck, but Rodney didn't see her as he frantically took in the room. "Jeannie?" he called, his own voice sounding muffled and strange. "Jeannie!"

"Here!"

Rodney's head snapped around to see a dusty and blood-streaked Zelenka lifting himself out of a small pile of rubble, uncovering a completely unharmed Jeannie. Rodney ran forward and pulled her into a tight embrace. "I'm okay, Rodney," she said, patting him on the back. Rodney chuffed softly, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Next to them, Zelenka suddenly dropped to the floor, as if his knees had given out. Rodney carefully put Jeannie down and crouched next to the blacksmith. "Are you injured?"

"I do not think so," Zelenka said, patting his arms and legs. "Just in shock."

Rodney nodded and sank down till he was seated as well. "That was my first earthquake."

"Mine as well," Zelenka said, thoughtfully. "I have never before heard of an earthquake in Russia."

"Really?" Rodney asked. That was interesting.

"Where's Jack?" Jeannie said suddenly. Rodney had long since given up on having her call Jack by any variation of 'father'.

"He's at the cottage," Rodney said, then froze as the implications sank in. The cottage. The small, poorly constructed cottage. He scrambled to his feet. "Jeannie, stay here with Radek."

Jeannie looked neared tears, but she nodded and curled into Zelenka's side. Zelenka wrapped an arm around her. "I will send Ronon," he promised.

"Thank you," Rodney said, already heading for the door. Once he was outside, he ran.

As soon as he rounded the last bend before the house, Rodney stomach dropped. Smoke was billowing out of the shattered windows and open door and the thatched roof was in flames. "Oh, God, no," he breathed, staring at the destruction.

Ronon flew past him and without hesitation ran into the house. Rodney snapped out of his stupor and tried to follow, but the heat forced him to stay well back. One long, agonizing minute later, Ronon emerged, a limp body in his arms.

Jack McKay was dead.

ooo

Rebuilding didn't take nearly as long as Rodney had feared, as the stone shell hadn't taken any serious damage, though the roof had to be entirely replaced. As he helped Ronon and Zelenka lift a beam to the top of the house, Rodney thought for the first time that there might be some benefits to living in the middle of nowhere. In the city, he would have had to make repairs on his own or pay someone else to do it. Here, Ronon, Zelenka, and Teyla refused all payment, aside from a good meal at the end of each back-breaking day.

Most of the McKay savings had burned up in the fire (benefits of small town life didn't include a bank), but the garden had survived mostly intact and Rodney and Jeannie were able to scrape by that winter. By March, however, they were reduced to eating food that a beggar in the city would have turned away with disdain and Jeannie was losing weight she didn't have to spare.

Jeannie had taken Jack's death harder than Rodney had anticipated, and for months afterwards she refused to speak to anyone but Zelenka. Even Teyla couldn't get her to open up and it was obvious to Rodney that he wasn't the only person in town worrying about Jeannie's declining spirits.

After the third time he came across Jeannie shivering in the snow outside the forge, Rodney dropped his prohibition on the blacksmith's shop. Jeannie's health improved almost immediately. Rodney never asked Zelenka if he was feeding Jeannie on the sly, but the following summer he gifted Zelenka with far more produce than he had in years past. Zelenka took the vegetables without comment, though he ruffled Jeannie's hair when she accompanied Rodney for the deliveries and Jeannie stared at Zelenka when she thought no one was watching.

That year Rodney noticed for the first time that Jeannie was becoming a woman. The looseness of her clothes was no longer sufficient to hide her budding breasts, and he suspected her hips were swelling under her voluminous skirts. On the day he found a bloody rag hidden under her bed, Rodney's nerve broke and he dragged Jeannie to Teyla. At his request, Teyla had a long talk with Jeannie about womanly issues while Rodney hid in the bar with Ronon.

Rodney hoped that Teyla's discussion covered sex as well, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to explain that to Jeannie either. It wasn't that he was a virgin. When he had turned sixteen, Jack had taken Rodney to a small, non-descript house in the disreputable part of the city and there a couple of talented and very experienced women had showed him everything that could be done in a bedroom. While he may not have had an opportunity to practice what he learned (farmers tended to be armed with hunting rifles and were notoriously protective of their daughters), Rodney was in no danger of forgetting his lessons. He just secretly hoped Jeannie would somehow avoid ever having sex. Get married, fine. Sex? Rodney chose to remain in denial.

A small part of his mind pointed out that there was something else he didn't want to explain to Jeannie, but Rodney was trying to ignore it. He didn't want to admit to anyone, even himself, how much more pleasure he found in looking at Ronon than he did at Teyla.

That year also marked the return of Kolya, who was wearing new medals on his uniform and new scars on his face. Rodney would have given almost anything to be able to turn Kolya away when he showed up on his door with his pocketwatch, but they were still struggling after the fire and Rodney refused to allow Jeannie to endure another winter without sufficient food. Still, Rodney made sure Jeannie was at the forge or the inn for the week of repairs - this time the watch was so dirty that Rodney wondered if Koyla had dropped it in a puddle of mud - and contrived to keep his own conversations with Koyla as short as possible.

Just after the harvest, Zelenka came back from his weekly mail pickup with a letter from Dr. Beckett. Such letters came from time to time, full of gossip that Rodney skimmed over and news of scientific advances that Rodney devoured. This time, however, the letter contained something very different.

Rodney read with increasing disbelief as Dr. Beckett explained that a ship calling itself the Daedalus had arrived in port with a harrowing tale of a shipwreck, followed by years rebuilding the boat, only to be shipwrecked again. Now they had finally made it home, nearly fifteen years after they were thought lost at sea. Their cargo had long been lost or consumed, of course, but the ship itself still had value and the men aboard were going to need assistance in finding their way back into city life. Dr. Beckett encouraged Rodney to return to the city to wrap up these final affairs of the McKay estate. Reading the not-so-subtle message between the lines, Rodney realized that Dr. Beckett was suggesting that enough time had passed for the McKay curse to have faded from people's memories. The exile was now over; the McKay family could finally return to the city.

The problem was that now that they could return to the city, Rodney wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. In the city, he had been nothing more than Jack McKay's son, and while society had fawned over him and, more importantly, his money, Rodney knew they saw him as nothing more than an obnoxious, self-absorbed boy who spent his time and money playing with flowers. Once it became clear that he had no interest in making loans to his acquaintances or marrying a mindless beauty, Rodney's circle of 'friends' had quickly dried up.

Not so in Russia. Here Rodney had friends and a place in the community. Here people nodded and smiled at him; some even stopped him to converse, and now that Rodney's Russian had finally improved, he even understood what they were saying. Overall it was a vast improvement over his life in the city, poverty and all, and Rodney wouldn't give it up for the world.

He would, however, give it up for Jeannie, if that was what she desired. He didn't think she'd want to leave, but he had been wrong about her wishes before.

Whatever Jeannie decided, Rodney knew that he would have to make a visit to the city. The ship had to be sold to pay the crew, for one thing. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't simply abandon these men to the fates. After being gone for fifteen years, there was no way they would be able to find employment without a letter of recommendation from Rodney.

Both excellent reasons to return and, if anyone asked, the reasons Rodney would give for the visit. He would not tell them about the spicy-sweet scent that filled his dreams, or the way he imagined presenting Jeannie with the dual-toned roses named after her mother. He would not tell them that, while he had forgotten the names and faces of the McKay butler and cook, he would remember Elizabeth Jones until he died.

Jeannie took the news of Rodney's imminent departure well. As expected, she had laughed at the idea that she join him on the journey, though there was quite a scene over who would have guardianship of her while he was gone. Teyla won, of course, though Rodney made Ronon promise not to teach Jeannie how to throw knives.

Zelenka was the one to bring Rodney to the train platform, carefully driving his wagon through the silent woods. For reasons unknown, the animals had abandoned the forest after the earthquake and many of the more superstitious villagers spoke of witches and evil spells. Rodney scoffed at that explanation, but even he had to admit that the empty forest was eerie.

Neither he nor Zelenka said much during the trip. Rodney took advantage of the silence to calculate how best to conserve the money Beckett had included in his letter, so that it would be enough to get him to the city and back. Then he worked out a viable method for transporting roses for three weeks without them dying (first step: buy the whole bush). Finally he sighed and started in on the conversation he'd been putting off all week. Turning to Zelenka, he said firmly, "Swear to me that nothing will happen between you and Jeannie until I return."

Zelenka's hands tightened on the reins, but his voice was level when he answered. "Rodney, she is only fifteen."

Rodney merely crossed his arms. Plenty of the farmers' daughters married at fifteen and Jeannie was well aware of this fact.

Zelenka sighed. "I swear to you, nothing will happen." He stared ahead at the road for another turn before the corner of his mouth twitched. "Teyla would not permit it."

That was an excellent point. Rodney relaxed. "I'll miss you," he admitted reluctantly.

"And I you." The twitching lips grew to a full-blown grin. "I do not know what I will do without you insulting my country every five minutes."

Rodney just snorted in reply.

ooo

Rodney's return to the city was an exercise in frustration, a considerable feat considering how low his expectations had been. The sale of the ship didn't bring nearly enough money to pay the crew for fifteen years of service, but fifteen years lost at sea apparently prepared you for disappointment because there weren't any complaints. Rodney suspected that his letters of recommendation weren't particularly useful either, at least not in the city. Most of the crew had soured on the sea life, however, and either went south to work in the fields or north to work in the factories.

Depressing as his business affairs had been, Rodney had anticipated something along those lines when he had agreed to come and was disappointed but unsurprised when his expectations were met. The frustration came from an entirely different source, a much more personal one: after two weeks of searching Rodney had been unable to find any trace of either Elizabeth Jones or his roses.

Frankly, Rodney had anticipated the search would be a simple matter of asking the first society person he met. A beautiful foreign woman who could afford to spend hundreds of pounds on a few rosebushes? She should have been the talk of the town. Instead, Rodney found the exact opposite was true. Not only was there no sign that Elizabeth currently resided in the city, no one had ever heard of her having been in the city fifteen years before. For all intents and purposes, Elizabeth Jones didn't exist. And if the only person in the world to possess the Jeannie and McKay roses didn't exist, then Rodney's roses didn't exist either.

Having exhausted all avenues of information regarding Elizabeth, Rodney could no longer justify remaining in the city. He had already used most of Dr. Beckett's funds and if he stayed any longer, he would be forced to dig into the money he had brought to pay for the roses.

The last night before his departure, Rodney walked the streets of the city, saying one final goodbye to the place of his birth. It was easier than he thought it would be. After a decade and a half in the country, the city was stifling, dirty, and crowded. Rodney looked forward to returning to Russia.

He stopped at that thought, realized that he had long since ceased paying attention to his surroundings, and glanced around to get his bearings. A strangely familiar door caught his eye and he drifted toward it curiously. When he was a few feet away, the door opened to let a gentleman out and Rodney caught a glimpse of a candlelit hallway papered in a garish red. Suddenly he realized where he was.

His first impulse was to flee, but his steps were checked by a fierce longing as he considered the possibilities. The circumstances of his life in Russia had forced Rodney to abstain from the pleasures of the flesh for so long that he had assumed that those desires had died. Now that he had a chance to indulge, he realized how wrong he had been. His capacity for lust had not diminished; instead it had lain dormant, ready to spring forth at the first opportunity. As Rodney stared at the brothel door, he could feel his entire body tightening with anticipation.

The practical part of Rodney's mind took this moment to point out that he had more than sufficient funds for a night of pleasure and that he was far enough away from Russia that there was no risk of discovery. And, unless he was willing to shackle himself for life to an uneducated farmer's daughter, this would be his last chance for sex. Ever.

Put that way, it wasn't a difficult decision. Rodney thrust his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking and strode purposefully to the brothel door.

A man almost as large as Ronon answered. Rodney stood silently while the man inspected him, and then he gratefully stepped into the hallway when the man stood aside. Now that the decision was made, Rodney was both desperate to get started and panicked that he would do something wrong.

A large, elegantly dressed woman beckoned Rodney into the parlor. Rodney couldn't be sure, but he thought she might be one of the two women who had helped remove his virginity. If so, she had not aged well, though perhaps being a prostitute was a harder life than this well-appointed house would suggest.

The woman sat down in an overstuffed armchair and gestured at a divan for Rodney. He perched on the edge of the seat. "Is this your first time with us?" the woman asked, pouring a cup of tea and offering it to him.

Rodney sipped the bland mixture and tried not to make a face. "I came once before," he said, wondering if he should explain the circumstances. He settled on a neutral: "It was a long time ago."

If the woman was curious for more details, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she took a cup of tea herself and stirred it languidly. "We are here to serve you," the woman said, setting the cup aside. Rodney noticed she didn't drink. Presumably her thirst had been quenched by previous appointments. "If you give me an idea of your preferences, I am sure we can find someone who will suit."

Male, was Rodney's first thought, but he couldn't make himself say the word. What if the woman was so disgusted she threw him out? What if she called whichever police officer assigned to walking this beat (who was probably well-bribed to ignore the purpose of this building) and reported Rodney as a sodomite? Or, most frightening of all, what if she actually had someone to meet that preference? The idea of sex was scary enough, but sex with another man...

"Young," Rodney blurted finally. That didn't seem quite enough to constitute a preference, so he added, "Blonde."

The woman looked thoughtful. "How young? I have a lovely young girl, no more than ten..."

Rodney's stomach roiled. "I want a woman," he said tightly. "Not a child."

The woman didn't seem offended. "I have just the person." She stood up. "Follow me."

Rodney quickly put his cup down and scrambled to his feet. He still felt a little nauseous, but he forced himself to follow the woman to a dimly lit room in the back of the house. She left him there.

A minute later another woman came in, this one blonde and, Rodney was relieved to see, significantly older than Jeannie. The woman stripped and stretched out on the bed, on her back. "How do you want me?" she asked seductively.

"You're fine," Rodney croaked, his face burning. He avoided the woman's eye as he stripped and climbed on top of her.

Her body jiggled distractingly as he thrust and Rodney finally had to close his eyes. He pictured the burly doorman underneath him instead, body heavy with muscle. He pictured Ronon, with his warm brown eyes and long, heavy hair. He tried to picture Zelenka, but his mind rebelled. Radek was Jeannie's.

Finally he found something that worked: a long, lithe body, strong but not ostentatious, and a handsome face with imprecise features but with dark eyes and hair. Rodney imagined heat and desperation in those eyes and he could see a soft lower lip held tightly between teeth, holding back moans of pleasure. This man, this body, would rise to meet his thrusts, would take as much as he gave, would hold Rodney close with his legs and...

Rodney's body arched as he emptied himself into the body beneath his, still seeing a lean face and warm eyes. When he finally collapsed onto a soft mound of fatty flesh, Rodney started back in surprise. Quickly he recollected where he was and he blushed furiously. Avoiding the woman's eyes, he dressed as fast as he could, fumbling with the buttons and tripping over his own shoes.

Leaving money in the bowl by the door, Rodney fled.

ooo

As Rodney stumbled off the train at his final destination, he swore that he'd never travel again. This was it. For better or worse, he was Russian.

His mood did not improve when he saw that the field behind the platform was empty. Apparently he'd traveled faster than his letter, which wasn't unusual, but was highly irritating. Rodney was faced with the prospect of staying at the platform until Zelenka showed up, which could take up to a week, or of walking home himself. Rodney had food and clothes enough to survive a week if he had to, but there was no way that spending a night under the stars in a Russian winter could be anything but miserable. Besides, he figured he walked at least as fast as the nag Zelenka used for his wagon. If he started now and didn't take too many breaks, he could be home before nightfall.

Decided, Rodney packed his smallest bag with food and other essentials, and carefully hid the rest of his luggage in the middle of a dense cluster of bushes. A few flakes of snow began to fall as he started towards home.

Two hours later, the light snowfall had turned into a raging blizzard. Rodney couldn't see more than a couple of feet in front of him and every landmark, including the sun, was lost in the wall of snow. He wasn't even sure he was still on the road, much less pointed in the direction of home, but there was no question of stopping now. If he didn't keep moving he would freeze to death.

So he trudged forward, glancing up occasionally to be sure he didn't walk into a tree or boulder, but mostly focused on keeping his feet moving, digging deep down to find the strength for each step. At one point he looked up just in time to avoid a large spider web holding an enormous blue spider and he stumbled back, slipping on an icy patch and falling hard on his knees. After that he limped and soon he no longer had the energy even to lift his head to watch for obstacles.

Suddenly, the snow was gone. Rodney stared at the smooth, grey, strangely metallic but undeniably snow-free ground beneath his feet and frowned. He forced his head up and his jaw dropped as he took in the towers and elegant spires of a castle so vast that he could see it stretching out to the horizon in every direction.

He fainted.

ooo

Rodney woke up to find himself alone. In a bed. A tiny bed, in a strange, unfamiliar room. And he was naked.

He felt fully justified in panicking.

Unsurprisingly, panic did not make his current situation any easier or less strange and his rapid gasping was starting to make him lightheaded, so Rodney forcibly reined in his runaway nerves. His circumstances were a little easier to accept when he reminded himself that the alternative to nudity in a strange, but warm and dry room was freezing to death in a blizzard.

Calmer, he took a look around his new surroundings. Grey, metallic walls. Glowing blue symbols and a hideous bit of sculpture that was apparently decorative. Bed, desk, and dresser, all made of metal, all designed in a cheap, minimalist fashion utterly unlike anything Rodney had ever seen before. A lamp on the desk that turned on with a switch and radiated a perfectly even light, and that caught Rodney's attention more than anything else in the room. It was an electric lamp. It had to be. Rodney never seen one before, but no other light source was so bright, or so steady.

What was an electric lamp doing in Russia? As far as Rodney had heard (and, between Zelenka's sources and Rodney's own information gathering while in the city, he'd heard a lot), the only electric lamps outside of a lab were in New York City, where Thomas Edison had apparently indulged in a shameless bit of self-adulation by stringing a street with electric lights.

Rodney mulled over this development as he searched the dresser, hoping to find his clothes. He had some success, in that he found clothing, however, the clothing wasn't the same as what he had arrived in. He looked dubiously at the long tunic and loose-fitting pants, but there didn't seem to be any other options, so he pulled them on. After his usual, considerably more close-fitting, garments, Rodney felt indecently exposed.

A quick search of the rest of his room and the adjoining bathroom (which appeared to be designed for running water, though there were no controls to turn it on) revealed nothing else of interest (such as Rodney's bag, his affection for which was increasing directly proportional to the amount of time since he had seen it last), and Rodney decided there was nothing that could be done unless he left the room.

The door opened as Rodney approached it. Any other time, Rodney would have stopped to examine such a fascinating phenomenon, but he was getting the distinct impression that there were going to be a large number of fascinating phenomenon in this place, and if he stopped to inspect them all, he'd never get out.

Aside from a vast number of potted plants, the hallways looked very similar to the room: grey walls, blue highlights, and atrocious sculpture. They were also pretty much identical from every angle and after a few turns, Rodney was utterly lost. Without any idea of how to get back to his room and lacking any useful signage pointing him in the direction of the exit, Rodney kept wandering the hallways, hoping to run into a person. Someone had to be watering these plants.

Rodney would swear that he had walked a hundred hallways before one of them finally opened up into a large room. His exhaustion was forgotten, however, as he saw that the plants in these rooms were not the same as those in the hallways. "My God," he breathed in awe as he took in a veritable field of roses. Specifically Jeannie and McKay roses. Apparently he had found Elizabeth Jones after all.

After over two months of dizzying anticipation followed by crushing disappointment, Rodney found himself unable to resist the siren call of these flowers. Surely Elizabeth wouldn't begrudge him one rose, he decided as he stepped closer to the nearest bush. She had hundreds of them here, and all he needed was one long bit of stem. Just one. Even with a blizzard, Rodney could keep a cutting alive long enough to bring it home.

With that rationale in mind, Rodney grasped the longest stemmed rose on the bush and, carefully avoiding the thorns and wishing he had his pruning knife, bent the stem away from the bush, neatly tearing it away from the larger limb.

"Thief!" a loud, angry voice shouted from behind him. Rodney started and dropped the rose. It hit the floor, wounded side down, making the chance of a successful planting nearly nil.

Furious, Rodney spun around, prepared to give the intruder a blistering diatribe, but the words died on his tongue. In front of him was a large, cloaked figure with a distinct hunchback. "Quasimodo!" Rodney exclaimed, then wished he hadn't when the man scuttled forward until he was just a couple of feet away. Even this close, Rodney couldn't make out the man's features underneath his hood. It was more than a little disturbing.

"My name is not Quasimodo," the man said, his voice so low it was nearly a growl. He lifted his hand as if he were planning on striking Rodney and Rodney flinched in anticipation. "Who are you, who steals my family's roses?"

Rodney straightened abruptly. "Elizabeth was your family?"

The man cocked his head to one side, lowering his upraised hand. "Who are you?" he repeated, though his voice was now in a more human register. "How do you know about Elizabeth?"

"I'm Rodney McKay," Rodney said proudly. The man just stared at him and Rodney slumped in defeat. "I bred these roses. Elizabeth bought them from me." He glanced around the room. "Is she here?"

Now it was the hunchback's turn to slump, though it was hard to tell with that lump on his back. "She died," he said softly. "A little over a year ago."

"Oh," Rodney said. "I'm sorry. My father died last year as-wait, did she die in an earthquake?"

It could have been his imagination, but Rodney thought the hunchback was holding himself unusually still. "I fail to see how that is any business of yours."

Rodney crossed his arms and stared. The hunchback stared back. Then shuffled his feet. Then backed up a step. "Okay. Fine. Yes, she did die in the earthquake." The last few words were quickly mumbled and Rodney frowned, but he let it go. Maybe the man just had a hard time talking about his mother's death. Rodney could understand. While he was able to discuss his own father's demise with a fair amount of equanimity, he still avoided Jeannie McKay's death in both his conversation and his thoughts. There was just something about losing your mother...

"I'm sorry," he repeated, more gently. The hunchback nodded, but turned his head away. Rodney sighed. "Listen, I'm sure you want me to leave just as much as I want to go, so if you could just point me in the direction of the village I'll-"

"You can never leave."

Rodney froze. "I can never-" Cutting himself off, he spun away and started running, even though he knew it was hopeless. A second later he heard a high-pitched trill and blue flashed in front of his eyes and suddenly everything went black.

ooo

This time Rodney woke up in a cell, fully clothed, and not alone. Quasimodo was crouched just on the other side of the bars. The blizzard was looking like a more appealing option with each passing minute. Rodney crossed his arms and glowered at his captor.

Quasimodo slid a tray under the horizontal bars (because nothing in this castle made even one iota of sense) and Rodney's stomach growled. It'd been a long day and a nasty blizzard since his last meal. Gritting his teeth, Rodney nodded at the food. "Has that been tampered with?"

Quasimodo cocked his head to one side. "Uh, no. Why would I?"

Rodney saw the logic in that, and he was very, very hungry. And thirsty. "Wine?" he asked hopefully, around a mouthful of bread. Quasimodo pushed a cup into the cell. Rodney sniffed at the opaque white liquid, and took a tentative sip. Milk. He stared at Quasimodo with raised eyebrows.

"It's good for you," Quasimodo said, sounding defensive.

"It gives me cramps," Rodney snapped back. "I can't even drink it in tea."

"Oh." There was a long pause. Rodney poked at a strange triangular pastry covered in cheese, then nibbled on the end. Not sweet at all, but spicy and rich. He took a larger bite. Quasimodo stood abruptly. "I'll be back."

While he was waiting, Rodney ate his way through most of the food on the tray. Though he only recognized one or two of the dishes, the food tasted wonderful, if a little oily. When Quasimodo returned with a glass of red wine, Rodney accepted it gratefully and drank deeply. Once the glass was empty, Rodney put it down and focused his attention on his captor. "Thank you," he said, grudgingly.

"You're welcome," Quasimodo answered, and it sounded like he was smiling.

However, for all Rodney knew the man could be plotting Rodney's imminent demise. In fact, the food he just ate could have been his last meal. He felt his breath quickening as he realized that this could be it - he'd survived bankruptcy, an earthquake, and a Russian blizzard, only to die here, in a poorly-designed cell in the depths of a strange, metallic castle. "Please don't kill me," he said quickly. "I have a family, a sister, who needs me. Please, I won't tell anyone that you are here. Just let me go."

"I'm sorry," Quasimodo said. He did sound sorry, but he didn't sound as if he had any intention of relenting. "You can't leave the city. It isn't safe."

"Why not?" Rodney snapped, angry enough to walk right up to the metal bars and glare directly into the shadow under Quasimodo's hood. In this light, it almost looked like Quasimodo's skin were blue, but everything in this bizarre place seemed to be blue and Rodney shook off the distraction. "Because of the blizzard? Even you must be aware that weather changes constantly."

"It isn't the blizzard," Quasimodo said insistently. "I don't know how you made it here without encountering one of them, but-"

"Encountering what?" Rodney shouted, slapping at the metal bar for emphasis. Unfortunately, the moment his skin impacted the bar, he felt a great jolt in his body and his insides shifted or maybe turned into liquid and he had never felt this much pain in his entire life. He heard Quasimodo shouting and then suddenly the pain was gone and Rodney slid down to the floor and curled up into a tiny ball, trying to hold himself together.

"Are you okay?" Quasimodo said from very, very close and Rodney blinked and realized that he must have lost some time, because he was now resting halfway into Quasimodo's lap and two strong arms were holding him somewhat upright.

"W-what h-happened?" Rodney managed to force out, though it took a couple of tries.

"I'm sorry, Rodney," Quasimodo said. "I'm so sorry. I've never used the brig before, and I must have turned the force field too high."

Rodney must have lost some more time, because the next thing he knew, Quasimodo was slapping him on the face. "Rodney? Rodney!"

At this angle, Rodney was able to see under the hood without difficulty. His face really did look blue, Rodney thought. But, despite that, Quasimodo was actually quite beautiful. "You're blue," Rodney whispered and, for the third time that day, slid into unconsciousness.

ooo

This time Rodney woke up with a miserable headache and a serious determination to stay conscious for the rest of his life. Allowances might be made for sleep. Maybe.

Groaning, Rodney took in his surroundings. On a bed, in a room, not alone. He peeked under his covers. Half-clothed. Rodney closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel like a practical experiment into mathematical permutations. "What is this place?" he asked Quasimodo, though the name didn't fit anymore now that Rodney realized just how beautiful the man - creature - was. "And you might as well take off that hood. I know you have blue skin."

The man who really wasn't Quasimodo sat very still for a long minute. Slowly, hesitantly, his right hand came up and pulled back the hood.

Rodney's breath caught. Faux-Quasimodo was stunning: iridescent blue skin, softly rounded lips, clear hazel eyes, and striking black hair. Rodney had never seen or heard of anything like him. "You're not human," he murmured.

"No," the man said softly, even though it hadn't been a question.

"Where are you from?"

The man bit his plump lower lip and Rodney's eyes focused on that small flash of white teeth, contrasting sharply with the dark blue skin. "From very far away," the man finally said.

"Somewhere on Earth?" Rodney asked, though he was sure he knew the answer. The man slowly shook his head and Rodney let out a ragged breath. Not of this Earth. A being from another world. "Venus?" Rodney asked, his voice shaking with excitement. "Mars?"

"Farther," the man said gently. "Much, much farther."

"But where-"

"Shh," the man whispered. "You need to rest."

"But-"

"Rodney."

Rodney sighed. After the stresses of the day, his entire body was heavy with exhaustion and sleep was sounding more and more appealing with each passing moment. Still, to have a man from another world...here! In Rodney's room! "Will you be here when I wake up?" he asked in a small voice.

The man smiled. "If you want."

"I do," Rodney said quickly. He blinked, trying to hold his sore eyelids open just a few seconds longer. "What should I call you? Do you have a name?"

"I did," the man said, and he sounded sad. "I no longer remember it."

Rodney frowned. That didn't seem right. "What did Elizabeth call you?"

"Nothing," the man said simply. "It was only us for so very long, names weren't necessary. She took the name Elizabeth when we reached Earth."

So very long, Rodney thought. There was a question to be asked there, but his exhausted brain couldn't come up with one. Finally he gave up. "How about John?"

The man blinked. "John?"

"It's a very common name," Rodney explained, feeling his voice floating over his body. What an interesting experience. "My father was named John, though everyone called him Jack."

The man smiled again, and it lit up his face. "John. I like the name."

"Good," Rodney said. "Don't leave me."

He thought he heard John say, "I won't leave," but Rodney might have already been asleep.

ooo

Rodney woke up in the same room he fell asleep in, which he counted as a success. Next to the bed and looking horribly uncomfortable with his hunched back digging into an oddly shaped chair was John. John appeared to be asleep and Rodney found himself faced with a dilemma he had never imagined he would encounter: should he run back home to Jeannie, or should he stay here and learn more about this creature from outer space? In Jeannie's favor was, well, Jeannie. In John's favor was the fact that Rodney had no winter clothes, no idea of how to get out of the castle, no idea how to get from the castle to his village, and John himself. Who was blue and beautiful and from outer space.

Jeannie won.

Stifling a groan as every muscle in his body protested the movement, Rodney rolled out of bed as quietly as he could. He stole a quick glance at John to make sure he was still asleep, then crept out of the room and into the hallway.

First step, find some clothes. Rodney hurried down the hallway, stopping in each room for a quick search before moving on. Every one of them appeared to be living quarters. Every one of them was entirely abandoned. By room forty (or was it fifty?), Rodney was once again lost and still no closer to his goal of finding suitable clothing for winter in Russia, blizzard or no blizzard. When he stepped out of the room and ran into John, Rodney found he was almost relieved.

John glared at him. "Do you want to go back into the brig?"

"No," Rodney said, trying to sound reasonable. "But I'm going to keep trying to escape. I told you, I have a sister. I'm not going to abandon her."

"You won't survive out there," John snapped.

"I will if you give me back my clothes," Rodney retorted.

John sighed. "Look, Rodney, it's not that I want to keep you here against your will, but there's something out there in the woods. Something that escaped when we crashed. Haven't you noticed that there aren't any more animals in the woods? Haven't you wondered why that is?"

"You crashed?" Rodney asked, his voice slow, but his brain racing. John froze. "Your ship crashed. After Elizabeth was in the city, of course, since she died in the..." He stared at John in horror. "Did this crash happen to occur just over a year ago?" John swallowed hard, but nodded. "Did it happen to cause an earthquake?"

"I think it was more of a shock wave," John offered.

Rodney stumbled back, until his back hit the wall. John took a step in his direction and Rodney held up both hands. "Get away from me," he snarled.

John stared back, looking lost, but Rodney crossed his arms over his chest and stood firm. After a long, tense silence, John gave a small nod, turned, and walked away.

ooo

That night, Rodney slept in the last room he searched before exhaustion overtook him. He continued searching the next day, trying to find a straight line through the maze of hallways without success. He continued to search each room, though his searches grew more perfunctory as time went on. He encountered an endless series of bedrooms and a few doors that wouldn't open, which probably meant they led to somewhere interesting. Without tools, there was no way to find out for sure.

Unfortunately, Rodney wasn't equipped to maintain a long-term grudge against the man who knew the location of the castle's food source and by midday of the second day after the fight, he was forced to admit it. "All right," he shouted at the ceiling. "I concede. John, where are you?"

"Here."

Rodney started and spun around. "Have you been following me?" John nodded. Rodney frowned, but decided there was a more important question to ask. "Do you have food?"

They negotiated over dinner, which consisted of a whole circle of the triangular pastries. "What exactly is the problem in the woods?" Rodney asked through a huge bite of half-chewed food. He was already on his third slice.

John, on the other hand, was still working on his first. Of course, he'd had the chance to eat during the last day and a half, Rodney thought defensively and took another slice. "They are insects," John said. "Alien." Rodney frowned. "From another planet," John clarified. "They were dangerous initially, but then our scientists made some modifications and now...now they are unstoppable."

Rodney grunted. "What if I stopped them? If I solve the insect problem, can I go home?"

"Rodney, you aren't going to be able to-"

Rodney held up his hand and John glowered, but stopped speaking. "I'm a genius," Rodney said with a shrug. "I can figure it out. But only if you promise to let me go after."

John spent the rest of dinner thinking. It wasn't until Rodney was eating the last bit of cheese that had stuck to the pastry pan that he answered. "Fine. If you manage to rid the woods of iratus bugs, you may go free." He stood abruptly, causing his chair to topple to the floor. "However, I'm not going to hold my breath." John walked out of the room at a near-run.

Rodney watched him go, wondering where John had learned such strange speech patterns. For that matter, where had he and Elizabeth learned English at all? And on the topic of Elizabeth, if she was John's family, why had she looked so human, while John looked so...blue?

Perhaps, while he was solving the problem of the wood-killing insects, Rodney could find time to satisfy his own curiosity as well. Before he could start either task, however, he was going to have to find John. And, if possible, a map.

It took several hours of shouting down hallways before John reappeared. "Finally," Rodney said. "I've been shouting myself hoarse."

"Sorry," John said stiffly.

Rodney waved the apology away. There were more important matters to deal with at the moment. "I need to find a lab, along with any chemicals you have. Also, I'll have to have some of these insects to experiment on, so you and I will need to go hunting. Before that, however, I'll need the lab notes that your scientists made while researching these creatures."

John nodded. "I'll take you to a computer."

Rodney frowned. "What's a computer?"

The next week was a blur of ecstatic discoveries of new technologies, followed by crashing disappointment as Rodney learned that most of the castle's devices would not work for him. Finally, over a dinner of turkey sandwiches (John's favorite), Rodney announced, "This isn't working."

John froze with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"This random testing of technology. It's not working." He ate a couple of crunchy chips, marveling again at the wide variety of food that John's homeworld had invented. These were nothing like the fried potatoes that Rodney had always called chips. "We need to approach this differently," he said. "Systematically. I'll never be able to develop a solution to the iratus insects if I don't understand my own equipment."

John put down his half-eaten sandwich. Rodney had noticed he didn't eat very much. "I have an idea."

The idea turned out to be a small school room full of toys and games, most of which Rodney couldn't identify, though he was intrigued to see that building blocks were universal. Best of all, every single object in the room responded to Rodney's touch as well as it responded to John's. "Perfect," Rodney said, his eyes gleaming with intellectual avarice. He could just imagine the look on Zelenka's face when Rodney told him about this place.

The week before the school room, Rodney and John had spent the vast majority of every day together, a necessity as Rodney didn't understand the technology that he was dealing with (which usually didn't respond to him anyway), and because he still had an unfortunate tendency to get lost in the maze of hallways. After the school room, however, Rodney was able to work on his own and he quickly lost himself in the new technology. Occasionally he would glance up and notice John was gone, but each time he would simply shrug and return to his work. These computers were fascinating.

With such a wealth of potential discoveries at his fingertips, Rodney quickly lost track of the days, so he had no idea how long it took him to master computers, computer programming, crystal engineering, and mechanical engineering, all of which John's people were taught while still young children. Pity Michael Faraday had passed on, as Rodney would have loved to have been able to show him what he was learning.

Each day at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, John came to the school room to force Rodney to take a break. As they ate, they talked. Or, more precisely, John talked while Rodney peppered him with questions. Rodney learned a lot about John's homeworld and about his and Elizabeth's voyage to Earth. It was a long story, and an extremely implausible one. Apparently John had encountered more than a few aliens along the way.

Rodney sat forward in his seat. "You mean there are other alien species out there?"

John nodded. "Several. Though most of the ships we ran into were from Earth."

Rodney stared. "What? No, that can't be right. I would have heard something if-"

"They were all from the future," John interrupted before Rodney could get up a full head of steam. "Apparently human scientists have spectacularly bad luck with time travel. And, I have to say, a distinct lack of imagination when it comes to naming their space ships."

"Space ships," Rodney said, hearing the awe in his own voice and not caring in the slightest, because he was sitting in a space ship right now. "What are the other species like?"

John pushed his plate over to Rodney and shifted as far back in his chair as he could with his hump getting in the way. "I couldn't begin to describe them all. Some were good, some were bad."

Rodney swallowed and gestured with the second half of John's sandwich. "Tell me about your favorite."

"Aside from humans?" Rodney rolled his eyes and nodded. John looked thoughtful. "I guess that would be the Asgard. They're the ones who gave us cloning technology. Without it, we would never have survived the trip. Ten thousand years is a long time, even in stasis."

Rodney cocked his head. "Cloning?"

ooo

Rodney very nearly cried in scientific passion when John explained genetics to him, and the day that he discovered DNA, John wasn't able to get him out of the school room, even to eat. They ended up having a picnic in the school room, Rodney riveted to his computer screen and absently eating whatever John put in his hand.

That evening, John had to physically drag Rodney away from his work, and Rodney protested so virulently that it wasn't until they were at the tower that he realized they were somewhere he'd never been before. "Where are we?" he asked, staring around the window-lined room with unabashed fascination.

"Central tower," John said, sounding smug. "It's the highest point in Atlantis."

Rodney had severely mocked the castle's name when he first heard it, but by this point he was able to see the humor in a giant space ship sharing the same name as the lost city, so he just smirked and went to the nearest window. And stared. "It's enormous," he breathed.

"Yeah," John said from behind him. "It's incredible, isn't it?"

As Rodney watched the red-gold sunlight gleaming off of the graceful peaks of Atlantis's towers and spires, he had to agree. Not just incredible. Fantastic. Awesome. Riveting. Rodney had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

"This isn't just a castle," he finally said.

"No," John agreed quietly.

"There's room here for ten thousand people. A hundred thousand." He turned to look at John, who avoided his eye. "Where are they? What happened to everyone besides you and Elizabeth?"

John cleared his throat. "They used the stargate to return to Earth."

Rodney's mind latched on to the new word, but he fought down the inevitable question as it was patently obvious that John was trying to distract him. Of course, that didn't prevent Rodney from filing the word away to ask about later. For the time being, however, there was a more important question: "Why didn't you go with them?"

John looked annoyed, then suddenly brightened. Rodney's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The Wraith were coming," John said earnestly. "We couldn't let them take Atlantis, and we couldn't just destroy her."

Another new word. Rodney crossed his arms over his chest. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

John raised his eyebrows in his 'innocent' expression. Rodney snorted in disgust and gave up. For now. At least until the sunset was over. Speaking of, Rodney drifted back to the window. "You know, I can't wait to tell Radek about all of this. The control crystals alone are so outside our current understanding of physical laws, and when you consider-" John shifted slightly and Rodney cut himself off as he saw the expression on the other man's face. Anger, or maybe hurt. Rodney frowned. "It'll be okay," he said quietly. "Radek can keep a secret."

Without saying anything, John turned and quickly walked away. For two precious seconds, Rodney just stared after him, wondering what he had said wrong. By the time he thought to follow, John had disappeared, with no indication of where he had gone.

Fortunately, by this point Rodney had learned a few things about navigating in Atlantis. First and foremost, all transporters (the mechanics of which Rodney still hadn't completely figured out yet, but it was only a matter of time) had a map in them that allowed access to any transport exit in the castle. After quite a bit of trial and error wherein he had gotten totally lost and John had rescued him, Rodney had figured out how to get to all of the important rooms (his room, the school room, mess hall) from the nearest transporter. Even starting from a place he had never been before, Rodney made it back to his room in minutes.

Only to find himself at loose ends. He normally worked long into the night, only returning to his room when he was so tired he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. This early in the evening, Rodney wasn't able to sleep, and he quickly discovered there was nothing to experiment with in his bedroom that he hadn't already thoroughly explored.

In desperation, he spent five fruitless minutes fighting with the shower (fantastic invention - Rodney was never going back to baths), but like the other hundred times he had tinkered with it, it still only spouted lukewarm water. Finally he sighed and shoved the paneling back in place. The problem clearly wasn't mechanical. No, the problem here, just like the problem everywhere else besides the school room, was that Rodney wasn't John. Until he could either become John (unlikely), or find a way to convince the computers he was John (slightly more plausible), Rodney was simply going to have to resign himself to cool showers and dead equipment.

Suddenly, Rodney was annoyed. What was wrong with John, anyway? Why had he just wandered off without saying anything, abandoning Rodney after he had been the one the one to drag Rodney to the tower in the first place?

Grumpy and rapidly growing claustrophobic in the tiny room, Rodney decided he was hungry enough to eat. Not any of those outlandish foods that John had introduced him to, though. No, Rodney was hungry for something familiar. Something warm and comforting. Borscht, in fact. Borscht was exactly what he needed.

The food synthesizers were a technology that the castle had acquired from aliens (only in this case the aliens were human and that thought would never cease to be thrilling to Rodney), so Rodney could operate it on his own. Not that he'd ever tried without John, but it seemed simple enough. "Borscht," he told it, being careful to enunciate clearly.

A large silver bowl of dark red soup appeared, with a small dish of white cream next to it. Rodney frowned at the dish, and picked it up to sniff suspiciously at the cream. Soured. He poked at the soup, and his frown deepened. Cold. And it didn't seem to have any ingredients besides beets.

So, apparently, Rodney couldn't use the synthesizer by himself. At least, not with something as complicated as a Russian stew. He sighed and let his head hit the wall next the synthesizer. There was one food he was sure it knew how to make. "Turkey sandwich," he said wearily.

Of course, it came out perfectly.

ooo

The next morning, Rodney wasn't sure if John was more likely to show up in Rodney's room or at the school room and he wasted nearly an hour pacing back and forth between his bed and his door (which slid open every single time he got close, and it was rapidly becoming annoying, rather than interesting). Finally he decided that there was no point in waiting and, honestly, his room seemed to be defying physical laws and becoming smaller with each passing second. Much longer and he could conceivably run out of air.

John arrived in the school room just a few minutes after Rodney did. "Thank God," Rodney burst out as soon as he saw the alien. John looked pleased, until Rodney added, "I think I've learned all I can from this room. I need you to take me to the lab and turn everything on for me."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

Rodney stared at him. "But-but you said-"

"I said you could leave if you solved the iratus problem. I never said I would help."

Rodney couldn't believe the sheer illogic of that statement. John may not be the genius Rodney was, but he had never been actively idiotic before. "How can I solve the problem if I can't even use the tools?" Rodney yelled.

John smiled smugly. "That is a problem."

Something inside Rodney snapped. "It never bothered me that you were an alien," he seethed. "But I'll be damned if I'll be held prisoner by a lying, dishonorable bastard."

John flinched.

They stared at each other for an interminable minute, John's face paling and darkening in turns and Rodney's breath coming in fast, angry gasps. Just as Rodney was going to say something - an apology or another accusation, even Rodney didn't know for sure - John turned and left.

ooo

Rodney didn't see John for a long time after that, for which he was grateful. Now that he knew how things stood between them, Rodney had plans to act on. Considering they were taking place in the medical lab Rodney had recently discovered and were probably going to involve John's blood, Rodney didn't think John would approve.

The first step was something Rodney had been considering for some time: though he could not make the lab computers work for him, he had no difficulties with the portable computer from the school room. There had to be some way he could create an interface between the two.

That proved easier said than done. For one thing, the castle's technology did not utilize physical connections, so Rodney could never be completely sure he was interfacing with the correct computer. For another, the school room's database of information only included details on a limited number of crystals, none of which suited his needs. In the end, he had to use trial and error to find a crystal that worked, and the connection was never very stable. Still, it was a connection, and for the first time the castle's entire database of knowledge was available to Rodney. At which point he discovered another problem.

John had told Rodney that Elizabeth had been a great scholar of linguistics and culture and, as such, she had learned the language of every alien species they had met. John himself was not good with languages, but since they were going to Earth, Elizabeth had insisted that he at least learn English (which was the common language of every human they met in their travels). The school room had been equipped to that purpose, with each item labeled in English and an impressive translation program running on the school room's computers.

Rodney had assumed that the program would be adequate to translate the city's database as well, but he found he was mistaken. Any word that the program didn't recognize was replaced with a series of asterisks, and after a few minutes, it was clear that Elizabeth may have had a great gift for languages, but she had no talent at all for science or for scientific terminology. Rodney encountered whole passages with sentences such as: The ***** was *****, but the true impact was not clear until ***** was added in conjunction with *****. He bowed his head with a sigh. Even for a genius, this was going to be difficult.

Putting off the tedium of decoding for another day, Rodney set about exploring the medical lab, his heart in his throat as he searched for any sign of John's blood. He assumed that it would be here - Earth doctors were already discovering the enormous value of blood transfusions, and he could only imagine that John's people had long since mastered its use. Still, there was always a chance that the Ancients had found blood alternatives. In that case Rodney would have to get blood from John himself, something he would very much like to avoid.

Rodney found the blood in the end, though he had to pry the front panel off of a refrigeration unit to do so. He stared at the bags and bags of red liquid with a blend of awe and horror. There were gallons of blood here. Unless John was a vampire, Rodney couldn't see any purpose to such a quantity.

He also couldn't see how all of this could have come from John. Unless the Ancients had a method for synthesizing blood, this had to have come from a variety of donors. It could still serve his purpose, however. The only requirement he had was that it came from someone who could operate the equipment in the city. According to John, that was anyone from Atlantis.

Now, the disgusting part.

Breathing through his mouth and trying very hard not to think about what he was doing, Rodney ripped open a bag of blood and plunged his hand inside. Then he pressed his hand, dripping sticky red liquid, to the side of the lab's computer. Nothing.

Rodney lifted the bloody hand to his mouth and licked it clean. He had to bite his lip to keep from vomiting it right back up. When his stomach settled, he again touched the computer. Still nothing.

Rodney sighed. So much for simple solutions. He cleaned up the blood and then returned to his computer. He had a lot of work ahead of him.