5. Freedom is Just a Word

“I thought you would at least pretend I have a choice about it,” John snapped, sitting on the edge of the bed, half naked in the faded hospital smock and holding himself up mostly on his hands because his back and abdomen were still weak.

“Why would I do that? You don’t. End of story.” McKay bounced on the balls of his feet.

“I have a life.” John glared at McKay, who had gone from smug to annoyed, and then, inexplicably, shifty.

“This is your life, Sheppard.”

“I’m not interested.”

“What part of ‘you don’t have a choice about it’ don’t you understand?” McKay folded his arms. “You walked out on your job, your landlord evicted you, your car was junked for scrap metal, the SGC seized your bank account before your creditors could—not that your two grand in the bank could do much for you—and you’re now impossible to insure.”

John frowned on that last part. “What?”

McKay sighed. “Pre-existing condition ring a bell? They had to gut you like a pig to fix you. Your hip was permanently damaged. Carson had to rearrange your intestines by guesswork. You’ve still got four bullets in you somewhere.” McKay waved a hand casually around, indicating John’s body top to bottom. “No insurance company in their right mind would cover you. Too bad you live in the States.” McKay grinned like a shark.

“I don’t want to go to another fucking galaxy.”

McKay nodded. “True, the crap tables in Pegasus are, oh, nonexistent. You’ll just have to let that gambling addiction slide.”

“It’s not an addiction.”

McKay picked up his laptop. “Whatever. Look, I’m going back tonight, I’ve spent too much time lollygagging around here anyway. Keller is on your case, and if you’re lucky, on your dick—“

“Jesus, McKay! Shut up!” John yelled. He’d met Marines who had better social graces than McKay, a fact John had not known about the guy until he started talking up Atlantis. John knew McKay was going to make a play to get him there, but what he had not figured on was that McKay was simply planning on kidnapping him to do it.

“Right, right—you’re all prim and proper, officer and a gentleman, East Coast prep school. Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“You apologize for being a rude, foul mouth bastard but not for kidnapping me to another galaxy. You’re a class act, McKay.” John stopped there at the look McKay was giving him.

“I’m doing whatever I have to do to get you where I want you, Sheppard.” McKay snapped the words, his eyes flashing.

John saw the opening and took it. “Is that what you say to all the boys you fuck over, Mer?”

Direct hit. McKay was visibly repelled by the words for a moment, pulling his shoulders back in surprise. John expected the rally, though, and held himself completely still when McKay walked over and shoved himself into his personal space.

“If I wanted to fuck you, John, I’d make you beg for it first.”

They locked eyes, and John was going to be damned if he flinched first, but he was unprepared for his own body’s betrayal. He could smell McKay’s expensive cologne and feel the heat coming off of him through his suit, and every nerve in John’s rusty libido came online. He hoped to hell he wasn’t blushing, although his ears were warm. McKay gave him a savage once over with his eyes, and John felt stripped bare, McKay’s vicious brain connecting all the dots. He stepped backwards, a little flushed himself but smug once more.

“You’re mine, Sheppard. And just in case you doubt that—” He walked over to his briefcase and pulled out a folded over newspaper. He glanced it with a pleased expression before tossing onto the bed. “You can thank me later.” He turned and walked out.

John reached over (which hurt, just a little, pulling on muscles that objected to being used again) and picked it up quickly. It was a paper from his hometown in Virginia, dated a month prior.

His last official USAF portrait stared out at him, in grainy black and white, right next to his obituary.

John threw it across the room, far too late for McKay to hear him yelling. “You fucking son of a bitch!”

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