They Have Their Uses

[elucreh.livejournal.com]

Title: They Have Their Uses
Author: Elucreh
Fandoms: SGA/Macdonald Hall
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay; Walton/O'Neal
Summary: Not even when you go to another galaxy can you escape running into old schoolmates at cocktail parties…
Notes: It should be noted that my education in actual canon is still incomplete—I'm aware that the Genii thing is eventually settled in other ways, but I don't know the specifics, so you'll have to consider this as one of those alternate universes, branching off after the first few episodes of season two. Thanks to Alli for the beta.
Dedication: rageprufrock asked for Macdonald Hall for Christmas—and she single-handedly lured me into SGA. When I saw that Rodney would have more or less started his first year of boarding school the same year of the Fish broadcasts, the bunny bit hard. It's a little late for Christmas (my muse is like that) but I dedicate this fic to Pru, with all my best wishes for an amazing New Year.



These meet-and-greet parties after every arrival of the Daedalus really were going to be the end of him, John reflected grimly. Yeah, it was great that they were getting so many new people, and he was glad of a chance to eat and drink and socialize, but if he had his choice he'd be getting to know them first and partying with them afterwards. Personally he spent as much time talking to Rodney in corners as Elizabeth would let him get away with.

She'd dragged them out and started introducing them again, and John was ready with a firm handshake and an easy smile for each of the new scientists, new marines, new representatives of international cooperation. Rodney was mostly munching, nodding as Elizabeth named the guests for him.

"Dr. McKay, this is Dr. O'Neal," Elizabeth finished. "He's an anthropologist--specializing in folklore. He's here to see what we can learn from local legends about the Ancients and the Wraith."

Rodney looked up from his plate a moment. "How do you--good God, are you really O'Neal?"

The man smiled politely. "That's what it says on my lifeguard certificate..."

"Melvin 'Boots' O'Neal?"

The man blinked. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Well, not really." Rodney put his sandwich down and wiped his hand on his pants before extending it. "I went to MacDonald Hall for a year, in 1980--pop can collection?" John shot him a quizzical look.

Boots grinned widely and shook his hand. "You don't say. Small world, eh? Or small universe, really."

"Oh, yes. Do you--er--keep in touch with anyone from the school? You graduated there, didn't you?"

"She's my only alma mater," Boots confirmed. "Yeah, I still keep in touch. Not sure how many of 'em you'd know...you were too early for Fitzghart...you'd probably know Elmer Drimsdale? He's with the SGC, now--recommended me for this project, in fact."

"You don't say." A small line of bitterness crossed Rodney's face for a moment. He went on, "What about the Great Leader--you were Walton's best friend, weren't you? I always wondered where he'd end up."

"Really?" Boots turned a little to look behind him and wave. "Bruno! Bruno, c'mere a second!"

Rodney's eyes widened, and his face took on a look that was a peculiar mixture of hope, embarrassment, incredulity, and nervousness. John frowned and shifted until he could step in front of his scientist if need be.

The man who came bounding over gave an impression of endless energy and enthusiasm. "What's up?"

"Bruno, this is Dr. McKay, the Chief of Science--he was at MacDonald Hall the year of Operation Popcan."

"Really?"

"Eighty-nine popcans," Rodney stuttered out, wiping his hand again before extending it. A delighted smile lit the new man's charismatic face.

"And I'm John Sheppard," John cut in, offering his own hand. "Lieutenant Colonel, US Air Force." His handshake was a little firmer than usual.

"Of course! Of course!"

"I'm glad to have the chance to introduce you," Elizabeth said, her eyes amused. "Delegate, you'll remember that Colonel Sheppard heads up our military contingent here. This is Bruno Walton, John; he's the head of the Canadian delegation. He'll be sitting in on most of our meetings, along with the heads from other countries."

"Yes, I realize," he drawled. "I'm sure it'll be a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Walton."

"Delegate, John," she reminded him.

"Never mind, call me Bruno," Walton said easily. "If we're going to be working together we might as well be on a first-name basis. Never had a lot of use for titles...spent school calling the headmaster The Fish, didn't we, Boots?"

Rodney joined in the laugh at this little inside joke, but it was still his nervous laugh.

John frowned.

************************************

He was on the Hive ship, the Wraith standing over a figure that was writhing on the floor. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew that this was a dream, that it had happened before and would happen again, but also that it had actually happened, that he'd killed Sumner in cold blood, and that he was inevitably raising his gun, now without willing it, without the horrified sympathy or even the calculation that had accompanied this decision, and he watched his finger squeeze the trigger and looked up to watch the bullet go into—

"Rodney!" John's eyes shocked open, the emotions sparking along his veins, and he had to remind himself to breathe. After the first few gasps, his senses returned, and he pulled himself into a proper breathing pattern to calm his nerves, falling easily into the rhythms that Teyla had taught him for battle.

It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed one of his team in Sumner's place. The first time, it had been Ford, a terrified young kid, aging before his eyes as he lifted his gun. John shook his head and climbed out of bed…there would be no sleeping after that, he knew. He hunted out a pair of pants and a shirt and headed for the labs, where he knew Rodney would be working still, to make up for losing a day to the new personnel. If nothing else, Rodney was almost always a distraction.

As he approached the lab from the transporter, he heard a murmur of voices. Apparently Teyla couldn't sleep either. Well, it would be good to talk to—he stopped.

"So you have met these men before, on your planet?" Teyla was using her mildly curious voice.

"Oh, yes. Yes. You see—" Rodney paused, and John could imagine him picking up his mug and swigging coffee. "When I was twelve, my parents sent me to boarding school for the first time, to a place with a great reputation for all-round education—MacDonald Hall, it was called. O'Neal and Walton were both there, too…they were a couple of years older than me, of course, we didn't talk much."

"Yet you remember them?"

"Well, yes. The school was having trouble with funding, you understand, and Walton was determined to save it. He and O'Neal and a few of the others got the whole school whipped into a frenzy about it…that's why the popcans, we were trying to break a world record so we could get publicity."

"Yet he failed?"

"What? No. In the end, they got enrollments up to save the school. Why would you think that?"

"You said the first time. I assumed you had to go to another boarding school."

"Hmmm…yes. Well. The Hall is indeed a fine institution academically, but—not specifically oriented to the sciences. It was hard for me to concentrate on the areas I was most gifted in."

"I see."

"Look," Rodney's voice went up defensively, "it had nothing to do with jealousy. I can handle professional competition."

"Of course, doctor. I did not mean to imply that you could not."

"Drimsdale and his reputation…if they hadn't been so impressed by the name my bomb would have won, easy."

"I…am not sure I understand." Teyla sounded now as though she was torn between amusement and curiosity.

"It's not important." Rodney had gone sulky now, and John rolled his eyes. "I went to a school in a different province the next year that let me specialize in what I wanted to learn."

"That seems most practical." John grinned—Teyla's methods of soothing Rodney tended to be far more patronizing than Rodney generally realized.

"It's funny," Rodney said next, sounding pacified, and John grinned to himself. "I hadn't thought about MacDonald Hall in years…Walton and all the rest of it."

"Delegate Walton seems to have been your strongest memory of this school."

Rodney's voice softened. "Yes…I remember him very well." His tone turned rueful. "He was my first crush, you see…all impressive speeches and daring feats for the greater good."

John raised his eyebrows. Well. He supposed that explained Rodney's nervousness.

He could probably cancel his plans to keep a discreet eye on the man.

***********************************************

John strolled through the Jrilian village with his hands in pockets, absent-mindedly smiling at the market-day crowd and keeping one eye on Walton, who was bargaining for some kiwi-ish fruit at one of the stalls.

Ahead of him, O'Neal was playing sort-of marbles with a collection of the Jrilian children, mostly around age ten, John guessed, and asking questions politely, listening to their answers with the same keen interest that had drawn out more confidences in his first months than Heightmeyer had gained in her whole time in Atlantis. The man just had it in him to be appreciative, John guessed, and he wondered if that was what had drawn him to his specialty, if that skill of listening and reaching for understanding had felt as though it ought to have a purpose.

"Boots! Heads up!" Walton had thanked and paid the stall owner, and he tossed a kiwi-ish thing over the heads of the crowd. O'Neal caught it and grinned at his friend before turning his attention back to a girl in braids, who was doing some kind of hand motion as she spoke.

"Another damn nursery rhyme," Walton said easily, falling in step with John. "It beats me how he has the patience."

"He seems to enjoy it," John offered noncommittally.

"Oh, he loves it," Walton said, with affectionate disgust. "All rhyme schemes and symbolism. I say if you've got a thing to say, say it straight out! But your Ancients don't seem to have been much for that anyway, and time's done its work, too. Bet he comes home and spends half the night on his laptop again."

John couldn't help but grin. "All scientists are alike. I'll swear McKay only sleeps when Carson puts him out."

"Or when you show up and haul him out of his lab, eh?" Walton grinned back at him. "He's still with the team at the waterwheel?"

"Yeah, he thinks it'll be done in time for the end of the negotiations."

"Shame he's missing the market," Walton said, biting into his own kiwi-ish thing. "This is damn good fruit."

"Doubt he'd try it anyway…can't risk the citrus thing."

Walton nodded, and offered him the last fruit.

**************************************

John accepted his tray with thanks and scanned the tables for Rodney. He actually looked past him twice before he recognized him, because Rodney wasn't sitting on his own, or even with another team member or one of his staff. The man across from him was O'Neal. Shrugging, John walked over and set down his tray, sliding in next to Rodney.

"—Genii are almost convinced," Rodney was saying. He looked up and nodded at John briefly, taking a swallow of coffee at the same time. "She says she's never dreamed of getting through to them so fast."

"Well, did you ever dream you'd find yourself hitchhiking through the countryside at two a.m. looking for stray pop cans? I've heard him practicing his speeches about uniting for the greater good—I feel like I'm back in school, sometimes." O'Neal added with a wry smile. He turned to John. "Good afternoon, Colonel."

"O'Neal, McKay. What's this about the Genii?"

"Elizabeth told you Walton's been taking the lead in the discussions?" Rodney asked, shoveling sort-of potatoes into his mouth. "She told me this morning she thinks they might be caving."

"Well, that's good." John took a bite of his own. He'd seen Walton in action, by now, and he wasn't exactly surprised. Even he had found himself rooting for peace with the Genii in his weaker moments—not just reluctantly admitting that forgiving and forgetting and allying was in everybody's best interests while revenge was not, but actively rooting for it.

They ate in silence for a few moments. "Oh! Rodney—speaking of hunts, I think I'm ready to ask you for a little help with Ancient phonetics…I think I might be close to a gate address or two."

"Really?" Rodney looked up eagerly.

"What's this now?"

"O'Neal thinks that two of the nursery rhymes he's collected might be Ancient for places with ZedPMs," Rodney told him, face lit up with eagerness.

O'Neal chimed in, looking pleased. "Time wears on dialect, of course, and a lot of it's implied, but I think I've got something."

"Really?" John smiled at Rodney's enthusiasm, intrigued himself. "That'd be great. You do this a lot?"

"Well…not exactly." O'Neal shrugged cheerfully. "I mean—since I came here, yeah, that's why they asked me—but back home I was mostly writing long academic papers on the symbolism inherent in fairy tales. I mean for us, for our society, everything is written down…it wasn't always, but it is now, and if there are changes to the story it's because people are consciously exploring other aspects of it. There's no—no practical application to my work in such an industrialized society, when so many people have already combed through Africa and other less-advanced cultures for their stories, when we know why the lightning and the tides. But here—here it means something, it's not only a brand-new field that nobody's explored, there are really things that we can't explain scientifically yet, that we need to hear the rationalized and anthropomorphized versions of to help us find scientific explanations. It's—it's incredible," he finished lamely, and smiled sheepishly.

John felt his own face change as he listened, and when he looked at Rodney he saw the same kinship in the other man's face. Atlantis had found their purposes for them, too. "Not such a soft science, huh, Rodney?" He nudged Rodney's ribs with his elbow.

Rodney waved his fork at him, and a piece of meat fell to the table. "Oh, it's still soft," he said, "I've just got to tolerate it because I need it."

"Sure, sure." O'Neal grinned at John, who couldn't help but grin back.

Over dessert, John asked him, "So why'd you get into this stuff? If you didn't think it had an effect? What made you specialize in it?"

O'Neal smiled an odd little half-smile. "I was interested in heroes—in their purpose, their methods. Their power. I wanted an explanation."

Rodney looked at him with an understanding that John couldn't click with, this time, and he asked, almost sympathetically, "Did you get it?"

"Still looking," O'Neal admitted. "But in college I discovered they can have their uses." He winked at Rodney, flicked a look at John that he couldn't interpret, and stood up.

"I'm back to the lab—Rodney, can you come by or send someone who speaks Ancient a little later?"

"Sure, sure." Rodney waved him away, digging into his pie again.

"What was that about?" John demanded.

"Hmmm?" Rodney didn't even look up from his pie. "What was what about?"

"The whole—" John gestured, but gave up. "Never mind. I didn't know you were making friends with O'Neal."

"Oh, that. Well, he's really not all that bad."

"It isn't that surprising me. I can't believe he's been able to stand you long enough to make friends."

"Hey!"

*****************************************

John was pacing steadily around the small room as Elizabeth fussed at her hair in the mirror and Walton muttered his speech under his breath. They only had a few more minutes before the alliance ceremony, and he still didn't like it—and treaty or no treaty, alliance or no alliance, good manners or bad, he wasn't going to hide that he was armed. It had been a pleasant surprise when Elizabeth had given in with only a token protest, though. They were probably safe on this neutral planet, famed most for the hospitality it offered to allow warring peoples a meeting ground; they were probably safe from the Genii, now that they'd seen reason.

He still wasn't taking any chances.

He caught the tail end of the speech as he came back around to Walton's side of the room, and Walton took a deep breath.

"Big day, huh?" Walton grinned at him.

"That it is," John agreed. "But it'll be over soon enough."

"And then, on to the celebrations! Earned a little reward, don't you think?"

Just then, the door opened to the polite applause of the crowd of Athosians, Atlanteans, and Genii, and Elizabeth and Walton both pasted on their public faces and went out, John just behind them and on the alert. He took up a stand just behind Walton's shoulder while Elizabeth walked to the platform, and he didn't bother being subtle about fingering his gun.

It wasn't until Elizabeth had begun her speech that he realized that when Walton had talked of celebrations and rewards, there had definitely been a kind of quality to his voice. He let his mind linger on it idly as he scanned the crowd, the stage, the surrounding field, alert to possible traps and dangers. What had it been now…a kind of assumed understanding and camaraderie, but that was Walton, who tended to believe that everybody he'd ever met not only wanted a better world, but wanted his better world. There had been something else…a kind of…

His eye fell on Rodney, who was standing near O'Neal to the side of the crowd. Rodney was looking up at the stage, at Walton, and there was a look that John had never before recognized in his eyes. Something like…

Something flared, hot and possessive, in his gut as he remembered the positive leer in Walton's voice just before the ceremony. He shifted his eyes to Walton's face, and followed his line of sight straight back down to the little group of scientists. Already thinking of his celebratory rewards, no doubt, and John had to clamp down hard of his emotions at the thought of it, clenching his teeth and getting back to the job, back to watching for threats to his leaders, back to looking as menacing as he could manage.

The—mercifully—short speeches over, everybody scattered to enjoy the market of the Accord planet, as he'd taken to calling it in his own head, and to fall on the food and open bar provided by all three of their peoples.

John headed straight for the Athosian stuff with a kick, glad Elizabeth had made him promise to let Lorne handle security while he did the party thing. She'd probably had a little more gladhanding in mind, but that was her problem. John intended to get good and wasted.

A few drinks later, Rodney tried to lure him over, waving something the Genii had contributed to the menu and making enthusiastic faces, but John shook his head at him briefly and refilled his paper cup, retreating through the crowd to the empty edges of the field, where Rodney was unlikely to come looking for him. Tonight he wanted to be alone. Very alone and very, very drunk.

The universe had other plans.

Sitting on a stump and nursing his drink, an extremely unwelcome sound intruded on his solitude. He was about to irritably demand that, whoever they were, they get a damned room, when he recognized a name, and froze, and turned.

Walton and O'Neal were leaning up against a tree a little ways away, kissing with the ease and enthusiasm of people who have been in love a long, long time. O'Neal made a protesting noise when Walton pulled away, and Walton chuckled and moved, making O'Neal gasp through his own laughter.

With a kind of crashing realization, John come to the somewhat haphazard conclusion that he really shouldn't be here, watching this, hearing it, intruding on it, and he pushed himself unsteadily up off his stump and strode back toward the party, running one hand through his hair. He dropped his cup into a wastebasket and stood staring at it for a few minutes, hands in his pockets.

"Colonel?" Rodney came up behind him, talking through his food as always. "You've really got to try the food, it's—Colonel?"

"Hm?"

"Colonel, just how much have you had to drink?"

"Hm?"

"Okay, well, actually I think your pupils are enough of an answer. You stay here, all right? I'm going to talk to Elizabeth."

John nodded vaguely. Rodney looked worried and took off through the crowd toward the bright green of Elizabeth's dress, where he spoke a few urgent words. Elizabeth shot John a look of reproach—he had an idea he was probably in for it in the morning—and nodded. Rodney made his relieved face and shoved his way back to John.

"Come on, Colonel," he said, putting a gentle hand on John's arm. "We're going to take you home."

John nodded again and let Rodney lead him through the crowd, back to the gate, and leaned against a tree while Rodney dialed Atlantis. Rodney held on to his elbow with an extremely firm grip while they went through the wormhole, and led him back to his rooms, talking easily of the party and the speeches and his first master's and graduating from high school. John smiled faintly at the flow of talk, still wrapped up in his own thoughts.

Rodney lingered at John's door, finishing his sentence, which was by this time something to do with dissecting mistletoe in the eighth grade.

John watched his eyes moving, his hands waving, his mouth always mobile and alive. "Walton's with O'Neal," he blurted out, and immediately wanted to kick himself, except that if he tried he might fall over, but Rodney deserved to hear the news a little less abruptly than that.

"What?" For a moment, Rodney blinked at the change of subject, and John winced, waiting for hurt to spread across his face.

"Sorry."

But Rodney only looked puzzled. "Sorry?"

"Sorry."

Rodney raised his eyebrows at him and waved his arm at the door detector, pulling John into his little sitting room and setting him in a chair, pulling up the other chair to sit across from him. He leaned forward on his forearms and looked up into John's eyes.

"Now—why are you sorry?"

"Because—" John stopped. "Did you know Walton's with O'Neal?"

Rodney got his puzzling-things-out expression. "Yeah—they've been together since high school."

"Oh." John slumped down in his chair.

"Colonel?" Rodney asked, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. "Why did you say you were sorry?"

"Telling you. Like that…but I guess you already knew, so really it wasn't…"

He could practically watch the gears click into place in Rodney's head.

"You thought it would upset me? If I knew they were together?"

John nodded.

"Why?"

"I—I heard you telling Teyla—"

"Oh. Oh, no, honestly—I was twelve, John, are you still in love with your crush from when you were twelve?"

And this was Rodney's patented "I can't believe you're so stupid" voice, and John smiled a little as he answered, "No."

"Well, then." Rodney stood up, and hesitated. "You going to be all right?"

John nodded again, and looked up at Rodney, whose concern was written across his face in clear lines, and before he was entirely clear on what was happening he was standing, he was kissing Rodney, one hand fisted in the other man's shirt to pull him close enough for help with balance, and Rodney's mouth was beneath his, wondering, and opening, and…

****************************************

When they arrived in the mess hall the next morning, they were walking close together, bumping into each other and exchanging silly grins every time they did. No one seemed to notice as they went through the mess line, although John could hardly bring himself to care whether they did or not.

He followed Rodney without thinking about it much, right up until Rodney sat down across from O'Neal and started asking him about his work with the phonetic translations. Awkwardly, he set his tray across from Walton and slid onto the bench, focusing on his sort-of pancakes with the unexplained taste of nutmeg. He was so determinedly not looking up that it took him a few minutes to realize that the flow of sound from Rodney, punctuated by O'Neal's soft, knowledgeable voice, had completely stopped. Wary, he glanced away from his pancakes.

Rodney had a sheepish, happy look on his face as O'Neal kept glancing from his fellow scientist's face to John's neck, one eyebrow raised. Walton was grinning, too, and John slapped a hand to his throat, feeling a rough, tender mark on his skin.

"Found out their uses, have you?" O'Neal finally asked.

Rodney's smile widened. "One or two."

John's eyes met Walton's across the table. The diplomat shrugged.

"Scientists."