Behind him, Rodney grunted irritably. “In whose nightmare, Colonel? We’re not going in there, are we?” Rodney didn’t want to go anywhere near the place; the trees were huge and gnarled, with thick vines hanging off every branch. Underneath lay imposing, thorny brambles and spiky shrubs. The only thing missing was a bunch of flying monkeys or maybe some cackling witches. John was probably in heaven, though; the man was just contrary enough to love something so ominous.

Teyla shook her head. “No, I believe the Auutik village lies outside the forest,” She replied calmly. “For which I am very grateful.”

“Indeed,” Ronon intoned. “The undergrowth is dense and would prove difficult to navigate.”

John simply shrugged, keeping one eye on the forest and the other on the path. “I dunno, it’d make a great location for a haunted forest. It is Halloween.” He could almost hear Rodney rolling his eyes in exasperation. John smiled to himself, happy that Rodney was closer to normal. They’d gone through a lot these last few months, between Rodney destroying most of a solar system and he himself almost becoming a Wraith. John personally thought the Wraith transformation was more frightening, but Rodney had taken his failure to harness the weapon much more personally. John was almost over the immediate terror of the Iratus fiasco, but only now was Rodney recovering his self-confidence and characteristic attitude.

“Halloween?” Rodney griped. “It’s not Halloween without candy and obnoxious children running around puking on everything in sight”

“What is ‘Halloween’?” Ronon asked Teyla, even as Rodney continued complaining about the lack of familiar holidays.

“Halloween is a holiday fabricated by capitalist enterprises to consume as much money as possible with the least amount of effort,” Rodney snapped, causing John to laugh at his ill-humor. Some things were constant, no matter what. John liked a little continuity in his life, even if it was Rodney’s orneriness.

Teyla grinned. “Dr. Weir explained the holiday to me. Many years ago, the day was considered a sacred time when the separation between the world of man and that of spirits was very narrow. Some people rejoiced, using the time to communicate with loved ones long gone. Others feared it, worried that evil spirits and demons would cross over into the physical world and wreak havoc.”

“Ah,” Ronon hummed. “What is Dr. McKay talking about, then?”

“Today most people on their planet do not celebrate the original meaning of the day; they have traditions now where young ones dress in costumes and go through their communities, collecting sweets and playing pranks,” Teyla explained.

“And watching horror movies,” John added. “It’s just for fun now, something to entertain the kids and give the rest of us a reason to act silly. McKay, of course, has nothing to do with it.”

“Actually, I quite enjoy Halloween,” Rodney argued. “When I was in graduate school, the physicists and chemists got together to fill the University’s swimming pool with blue jello.” John should’ve known by now that Rodney did have a sense of humor, even if it didn’t tend towards dumb blonde jokes and beer bongs.

“Oh god,” John gasped, laughing. “Blue jello? The admin must’ve had a shit-fit.”

“We cleaned it up,” Rodney replied, “In fact, we made sure we could get the entire system cleaned before we pulled the prank. Nobody wanted to get thrown out of school for something so stupid.”

“Why blue jello?” Teyla asked, curious.

Rodney snickered. “The swim team had practice the next morning. We sat in the scoring booth and watched the first two guys go head-first into the jello.”

John stopped on the path, unable to walk due to his laughter. The image of Speedo-clad swimmers, floundering in jello, was too much. “How did you get rid of the jello?” He asked once he got his breath back. John wondered why he’d never pictured Rodney as a practical joker before. It fit, though, in an odd, almost surreal way; Rodney wouldn’t be able to resist proving he was exceptional at pranks, just like he had to be the best at nearly everything else.

“Enzymes,” Rodney stated. “Pineapple extract keeps jello from congealing. It really was ingenious and it only took two days to get the system cleaned since we had the filtration turned off. We still got suspended through finals, but it was worth it.”

Ronon and Teyla shared a glance, amused at their colleagues’ amusement. A few moments later they proceeded down the path, which wound its way through rocky rubble and patches of spiny overgrowth. “How far did you say that village was?” John asked Teyla. “I’d have thought we’d have reached it by now.”

Teyla glanced ahead of John and frowned. “It used to be between those two hills,” she said, pointing into the distance. “I see noth—

The sound of gunfire silenced her and the team ducked behind an outcropping of rocks and vines. “I thought they were friendly,” Rodney hissed at Teyla. “Shooting at us is not friendly!”

“The Auutik do not use guns,” Teyla replied gravely. “But rather archery.” More gunfire rang through the air, this time behind them as well as to the right.

“Ambush,” Ronon muttered. “They are between us and the ‘gate.”

“And in front of us, and over there,” John added, nodding to the open area right of them. “Getting closer, too.”

“They’re rounding us up,” Rodney surmised. “How many of them are there?”

John peeked over the top of the rocks they were using as cover. “I see ten to the right,” He whispered, “And at least a dozen in front.”

Ronon, meanwhile, had crept a short distance back up the trail, hiding in the bushy brambles. He returned a minute later, chased by gunfire. “There are twenty-three between us and the ‘gate, and they’re closing quickly,” He told John. “We must go to the forest.”

John nodded, eyeing the dark woods. “Ok, there’s a space between these two boulders,” He said, leading the team into the outcropping. Rodney followed him, with Teyla and Ronon bringing up the rear. Bullets ricocheted off crumbly rocks as they left the outcropping and broke into a run. Sharp thorns and branches tore at their gear as they entered the nearby forest, ducking low-hanging vines all the while.

Gunfire and shouting echoed around the team and John cursed under his breath. He’d hoped their attackers wouldn’t follow them into the forest but instead they were being pursued into it. Their pace was slow, dragged down by the lack of a clear path and the lush if forbidding greenery surrounding them.

Rodney stumbled over an overly-large tree root, tumbling down to the ground. He cried out in pain, clutching his arm. “Ouch,” He hissed, grimacing as blood oozed between his fingers. A sharp rock had split the skin on his forearm. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it still hurt like hell.

“Come on,” John growled, hauling Rodney to his feet. He spotted three people not far behind them, so John didn’t wait for Rodney to start complaining. Dragging the physicist through a forest wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but at least all their long months of non-stop missions had gotten Rodney in better shape.

Teyla and Ronon were nowhere to be seen, but John wasn’t worried. Both of them were quite capable of taking care of themselves and he figured they’d stick together, circle back around, and meet them near the ‘gate. Meanwhile he and Rodney pushed their way deeper into the woods, struggling to see as daylight faded. John cursed planets with short days and abundant trees; at the rate the light was disappearing they’d be in utter darkness within the hour.

“Slow down,” Rodney pleaded as he tried to keep up with John. “They’re not behind us anymore.”

“They’re not right behind us,” John corrected. “But we’re not exactly operating on stealth mode, Rodney. They’ll be able to track us.”

Rodney bit his tongue and continued on, dodging thorns the size of machetes and vines that looked a little too much like snakes. John led him around an enormous tree, its trunk easily as big as the biggest Sequoyah on Earth.

Then the ground disappeared. Rodney flailed helplessly at the dirt and roots flying past him as he fell, feeling John just below him as his booted feet struck the man’s back. There must’ve been some kind of cliff, he thought, hidden underneath the tree’s root system. They slid steeply down, long enough that Rodney almost hoped they didn’t land. When they did, it was going to hurt a lot.

Or not, Rodney corrected when his descent was halted by a surprisingly soft mass of springy whiteness. He plopped down right next to John, who was half-buried in a cloud of spongy, fragrant stuff. “Ow?” Rodney whispered, rubbing his forehead.

“Ow,” John confirmed as he heaved himself up. “Wow, too.”

Rodney looked around. “Oh yeah, wow,” He whispered back. They’d landed in an enormous growth of mushrooms, bigger than any he’d ever seen. The cap he was currently embedded in was larger than his bed, as was the one cushioning John. All around them towered thick stalks and glowing, orb-like buttons.

“Can you see out?” John asked, peering at the numerous stalks. “Because I can’t see anything but mushroom.”

“Shh,” Rodney hissed as he heard footsteps. Both men stilled, listening as a group of heavy feet stomped around them. Voices murmured and seethed in a language they didn’t understand but that eliminated Teyla and Ronon as possible rescuers.

John pressed a finger to his lips and Rodney nodded. Being stuck with the universe’s biggest mushrooms wasn’t nearly as bad as getting shot and it didn’t appear as though their pursuers knew they were hidden beneath the snowy fungi.

The only thing Rodney had to look at besides John and the mushrooms was the small spot of forest canopy and darkening sky left from their descent. He decided that the mushrooms had a pleasant aroma, not nearly as earthy as the ones he was used to. Chances were, of course, that the things were highly toxic and they couldn’t haul them back to Atlantis for supper. It was just as well; Rodney wasn’t a big fan of mushrooms in the first place. They didn’t can well and Rodney wasn’t fond of fresh food. Not fond of it at all.

While Rodney was silently pondering their landing pad, John was staring at the night sky. All he could see now was a couple of stars—or maybe planets, he couldn’t tell—and the occasional dark silhouette of a tree branch waving in the breeze. The others were still outside the mushroom growth, although they weren’t as close. He couldn’t tell how far away, though, because the thick fungal material provided a great deal of soundproofing. They must’ve been shouting when they first arrived, for them to have been heard so clearly. What bothered John was that the people weren’t moving away, either.

After about an hour of waiting, Rodney rolled over to John, who was still half-covered in mushroom bits. “Are they gone?” Rodney asked, voice barely audible.

John shook his head and pointed towards his feet, mouthing ‘four’. Rodney grimaced and settled into the broken-mushroom bedding, wiping his hands of its slight moistness. John reached out and caught his hand, frowning at the sound of Rodney’s skin brushing fabric.

Rodney shot John a curious glance. “What?” He mouthed, trying to jerk his hand away.

John edged closer to Rodney, trying to move as quietly as possible. He bent his head to Rodney’s ear, trying to ignore the scent of aftershave and sweat. “They know we’re here,’ He said softly. “They’re waiting.”

Rodney’s eyes shot around their hideout, frantically looking for weak spots. “Why not just come get us?” He asked John as he shifted even closer.

John shrugged helplessly. He wanted to get his flashlight out; the last flickers of light were gone now and all he had to see by was the barest glimmer of light reflecting off the mushrooms surrounding them. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were glowing slightly—but it could’ve just been his imagination.

Once again Rodney relaxed into their shelter, resting this time against John’s side. He hated waiting like this, feeling trapped even though no one was holding a gun to his head. Somewhere out there, Ronon and Teyla were on the run—unless they’d been captured.

A quiet popping sound caught both men’s attentions and as one, they turned their heads upwards. One of the mushroom caps was opening, wispy tendrils of tissue fluttering down as inky-dark gills were exposed. One after another the caps expanded, until they were shadowed by a canopy of black and eerily-luminescent white.

“Um, John?” Rodney murmured, unconsciously clenching his fingers in John’s vest. “You know what happens when mushroom caps open, right?”

John opened his mouth to reply just as a slight breeze kicked up. The entire mushroom clump trembled, causing a cloud of fine, dark particles to fall. He shut his mouth, turning in towards Rodney’s chest. Rodney tucked his head as well, twitching when the spores hit his skin.

Rodney tried to hold his breath, knowing that his immune system was no match for alien fungus spores. John would laugh at him, but Rodney was scared shitless. On Earth he’d have just dusted himself off, but this wasn’t Earth and these weren’t fairy-ring mushrooms. He could smell the spores, though; they were perfumed like the mushrooms themselves but slightly stronger.

John pressed his mouth against Rodney’s vest, using it as a filter. The spores irritated his bare skin and he wanted to scratch the backs of his hands. He couldn’t move, though, not without breathing in the fine dust. Instead he held onto Rodney, praying his team member wouldn’t move away.

He didn’t move, not until some of the spores got on his face. When his cheek began to burn, though, Rodney couldn’t help reaching up to wipe the spores off. When he shifted, John curled in tighter, digging his fingers painfully into Rodney’s ribs. The piercing sensation made Rodney gasp and he rolled onto his back to escape.

John felt his protection disappear just as he took a breath. On the inhale he felt a dull ache spread through his lungs. By the time John breathed out, however, he couldn’t feel a thing.

•••

Rodney scowled at the mirror, which refused to show him a perfectly arranged cravat. Biting back a curse, he yanked it loose and began again, unwilling to admit defeat at the hands of a length of ivory silk.

“Let me do that,” Kavanagh said, reaching for the material. “It might be the only thing at which I am better suited than you, milord.”

“Dressing me?” Rodney muttered while Kavanagh expertly tucked the cravat. “It is your duty, Kavanagh, to ensure that I am properly attired. If you did not excel at the job, I would have fired you long ago.”

Kavanagh sniffed but said nothing, fingers twitching folds this way and that until the cravat was arranged to his satisfaction. “There,” He said, smoothing Rodney’s topcoat. “Perfect as always.”

Rodney took one last look in the mirror, finally satisfied with his appearance. He wasn’t particularly fond of Hessians, but they did complement his physique. “Hand me my mask,” He ordered, holding out his hand. Kavanagh slipped the mask into it, taking care to avoid crushing its delicate feathers.

“Is there anything else you need?” Kavanagh inquired, even as he edged towards the door.

“No, no,” Rodney said absently. “Go; I know you’ve been preparing your costume for more than a month.” Kavanagh slipped out the door, leaving Rodney alone to contemplate the Duchess of Weir’s annual autumn ball.

Rodney thought it slightly odd that Elizabeth would hold such a formal event, but he didn’t let it bother him. They’d been though so much this past year that a night’s amusement would do everyone a world of good. He, for one, fully intended to gorge himself on her chef’s best offerings and then spend the night mocking the pathetic costumes that couldn’t possibly compare to his own understated mask.

•••

Late. He was fucking late, which meant General Weir was going to be pissed. John carefully parallel-parked his F-16 along the General’s driveway, wishing a rain of molten death on whoever parked their powder-blue Volkswagon Beetle in the clearly demarcated ‘Jet Parking Only’ zone.

As he climbed out of the plane, John checked his watch. Yeah, he was still late, late enough that he didn’t have time to change into his costume. It was a good one, too; lots of dark leather and gleaming stainless steel that the General would appreciate. Unfortunately, at the rate John was moving it wouldn’t matter how attractive his outfit was, Weir would have his ass on a platter. It did not pay to be late to a commanding officer’s soiree.

A low hum caught John’s attention and he turned in time to see a white Audi park him in. “Hey, mister, can’t you read?” He shouted as the driver climbed out. “Jet Parking, turdbreath. Jet Parking Only.”

“Goddamned flyboys,” The driver muttered, walking right past John and into the General’s mansion. The doorman and valet both laughed at John, who stormed in after the other guy. It was gonna get his ass kicked, but John decided not to change clothes. He could simply attend the costume party as a pilot—about as unoriginal as he could get, but it was better than civvies...although dressing as a spy would’ve been okay, he supposed.

This was the last time he ever flew to DC. Goddamned no-fly zones meant he had to taxi on the Beltway, during rush-hour traffic. After three solid hours like that, his bladder was full, his temper was short, and he was goddamned fucking late.

John stormed down the hallway, looking for a bathroom before he pissed himself. As he turned the corner, though, an obstacle presented itself, sending him flying backwards.

Rodney didn’t feel the impact of whoever had barreled into him until he hit the ground with a resounding thump. He stayed prone on the floor for a long moment, trying to catch his breath. Whoever ran into him had been moving quickly, sending him down with considerable force. He spent a few seconds checking himself for injuries before standing up to find his attacker.

It was John Sheppard. “I should’ve known it was you,” Rodney growled as he took in the sight of his colleague. John was stretched out on the marble floor, clad in nearly painted-on silk. Riotous reds and oranges licked over his limbs like flame, face-paint tracing the designs over his face and hands. An acrobat, Rodney surmised. It suited John, and not just because he filled out the costume rather nicely.

His delightful appearance did little to soothe Rodney’s ire. The impact had hurt and Rodney needed to get to the party, not stand around trying to gather his wits after being run into by Sheppard. “Well, get up,” He ordered, glaring at John. “Thanks to your interference, I’m going to be late. If I arrive after the Duchess, I shall never overcome my humiliation.”

John oriented on the cacophonous voice barking at him, eyes widening when he found the person. Garish red-and-yellow striped trousers billowed down to enormous red patent-leather shoes with bulbous toes. The man’s polka-dotted shirt was likewise oversized and accessorized with lime-green suspenders and a bright pink bow-tie. Then there was the hair—red, of course, sticking out in mad tufts from beneath an exaggerated and bedraggled top hat.

The clown was saying something else, but John couldn’t focus on that, not when the guy was simultaneously juggling a series of fluorescent rubber balls. He squinted briefly, trying to discern the fool’s identity beneath a thick layer of makeup. Solid white skin told him nothing, nor did the outsized red grin and harlequin eyes. A nickel-sized red dot right at the tip of his nose completed the look. “Huh?” John grunted, frowning. Did the clown just pull out a whoopee cushion?

Rodney withdrew his handkerchief, using it to blot away a fine sheen of sweat. “Damn it, John, stop lying there like a moonstruck calf! You’re blocking my progress, so stand up and move aside!” Why was it that pretty men came falling from the sky only when Rodney absolutely had to be somewhere else?

“Rodney?” John questioned. “Is that you?”

“Obviously the fall did more damage to you than to me—for once,” Rodney griped, holding out a hand to assist John. That gymnast’s body was graceful even in the act of picking itself up, but Rodney tried to make his appreciate subtle. It wasn’t particularly difficult once John started giggling.

“You...” John said before falling into another round of laughter. Rodney the clown made an adorable clown-face and waved one hand in front of John, magically producing a bunch of silk flowers. “Oh, that is so cool, Rodney. Do it again!”

“Excuse me?” Rodney asked indignantly. “Did you just ask me to insult you a second time?”

“No,” John denied, “The flower thing, the magic trick. A clown, Rodney? I never would’ve guessed you’d pick a clown costume for this shindig.”

Rodney stared at an obviously-insane John Sheppard. Indeed, the fall must have broken something important, if anything in John’s head could be considered remotely vital. “I am not a clown,” He proclaimed haughtily. “But rather a noted scientist and theoretician.”

John tried to focus on what Rodney was saying, but the neat trick with the scarves going on in Rodney’s hands was distracting. Maybe he should’ve expected this kind of thing out of Rodney; he had the most amazing hands, always fluttering and talking even on the rare occasion Rodney’s mouth was closed. “Can you make quarters come out of people’s ears?” He asked Rodney, cutting off the man’s diatribe.

Rodney’s glare became incendiary. “Not yours; there isn’t enough coinage in it to exchange for a quarter. Once again, John, I am not a clown.. In fact, you’re far closer to a circus performer than I am.” It was the truth; John wouldn’t have been out of place in a troupe of daredevils, flying in the air without the benefit of a safety net.

John glanced down at his flight suit. “I don’t think so, Bozo.”

“Bozo?” Rodney queried. “I hardly think Michael Faraday is in any way comparable to a clown.”

“Uh huh,” John mumbled, smirking as Rodney pulled a mashed banana out of his pocket. There didn’t seem to be an actual trick involved, but then the banana peel went flying over Rodney’s shoulder, landing in a spot just outside an open door. Someone was going to step on it and go flying, the idea of which made John laugh harder.

“Obviously the constriction caused by your costume has impeded blood flow to the few functional neurons in your otherwise unoccupied skull,” Rodney hissed, pushing past John to continue to the party.

John scratched his head and followed Rodney, not entirely sure he’d heard the clown correctly, since he’d been focused on the four ping-pong balls appearing miraculously out of Rodney’s nose. There had been something in there about brains and tight clothes, but that didn’t make any sense. If anything, John’s flight suit was a little on the loose side. He never could get the Sergeant from Supply to order the right size.

Meanwhile, Rodney hurried to the staircase, wishing rather desperately that John would simply disappear into thin air. It hurt, having his costume—and his entire self—be considered nothing more than petty, lowbrow amusement. Was that all John thought of him? Rodney had thought that after so many months working together that John had at least accepted that Rodney was useful, even if he wasn’t particularly good at hand-to-hand matters. He left those things up to the barbarians under John. It hurt to think that John saw him as nothing more than an amusing distraction, keeping everyone’s eyes averted from John’s daring rescues and suicidal stunts.

Rodney heard John slide into a side room—a water closet if Rodney wasn’t mistaken—but he didn’t stop to wait for his colleague. If Rodney was to be a court jester, he’d rather be one in an actual court with true royalty, not brainless, twittering fools like John Sheppard.

At the top of the staircase, Rodney paused to take in the view. Most of the guests were already present, but he saw no sign of the Duchess. Until she arrived, nothing important would occur and the rush of relief he felt was almost enough to meliorate his irritation at John’s insult. He made his way down slowly, taking the time to admire the craftsmanship of the finely carved marble railing. It swooped gracefully along the staircase, elegantly cutting through his view of the throng below. At the first landing he stopped again, belatedly remembering his mask. He withdrew it from its silken sheath, not so taken with the handiwork now. What was the point of mathematically derived designs and painstakingly applied feathers, when everyone saw him as a clown?

John appeared at his side just as Rodney was about to continue on, his steps almost undetectable. Rodney silently cursed the man’s athletic grace, wishing that just once John would be clumsy and tumble down the stairs. Of course he would catch himself; acrobats didn’t simply fall down on their faces.

His quick trip to the head left John in a far better mood, one that continued when he found his brightly-colored friend waiting for him in the otherwise-plain, dark stairwell. “Come on,” John said as they descended, “You can hear the party from up here. I’m starved and I know Weir puts out a good spread for this thing. Last year they had an entire buffet dedicated to fried chicken!”

Rodney rolled his eyes at John’s exclamation. What did he care that the Duchess had an inordinate fondness for greasy fowl? The only thing he would indulge in this night would be a few dozen of her select chocolate confections and perhaps a small bottle of cognac. And some of the roast pheasant, at least if Chef hadn’t ruined it with a citrus glaze. If he did, Rodney would be forced to console himself with a platter of the delectable prime rib he saw on yet another buffet—one that also contained a dizzying array of fresh seafood.

Despite his aggravation with the man, Rodney remained close to John as they entered the fray. A lovely chamber group was playing a waltz and the ballroom was full of couples dancing merrily; women in rainbow colors spun and glided around myriad buccaneers and knights, armor clanking and swords gleaming. “Hey, there’s Caldwell,” John murmured, pointing at a tall, distinguished man holding court next to the musicians. Rodney peered in the direction John indicated, seeing that indeed Sir Caldwell was in presence. It struck Rodney as completely appropriate that the man was garbed as a Trappist monk; he didn’t even have to shave his head to achieve the needed tonsure.

John thought Caldwell looked slightly absurd as a pirate, but who was he to judge? The eye patch was a bit much, as was the parrot on his shoulder, but at least he stood with an air of authority. John spied at least a half-dozen other brigands among the partygoers, most of whom looked more like drunken cross-dressers than actual pirates. Caldwell was swaying not-quite-in-time with the swing music put out by Weir’s favorite group, some big-band relic she’d dredged out of Toledo.

“At least Lady Teyla found a costume to fit her usual style,” Rodney told him as the woman waltzed by on the arm of a nameless zombie. She was rather attractive as an Amazon, Rodney thought, even though she hadn’t ceremonially removed one breast to give the outfit more realism.

“I’ll say,” John concurred, wholly appreciating the barely-there bits of Lieutenant Emmagen’s Xena costume. She certainly filled out the breastplate. “Who’s she with?”

“I’m not sure,” Rodney admitted. “There are far too many of that type here to tell.”

“Yeah,” John hummed. Some people showed no originality whatsoever. How many headless horsemen did one party need? “Have you seen Ronon?”

“He’s over there,” Rodney said, pointing to one of the buffets. The tradesman was dressed in what Rodney could only imagine was a gladiator’s outfit, although not of any type he’d seen before. A crude fright mask covered his face, leaving only eyes and mouth exposed. His signature hair, matted with bits of dirt and leaves, was interwoven with blue ribbons, which matched the extraordinarily tight satin trousers and knee-high white boots that made up the rest of his costume. Ronon’s chest was bare and well-oiled, drawing the gaze of more than one lascivious woman.

“I wonder who’s playing the bull,” John asked rhetorically as he evaluated Corporal Dex’s matador attire. He couldn’t fault the clothing, but the hat was downright hilarious. “What’s with the...” John asked, gesturing towards his own head. “It’s...”

“Absurd?” Rodney offered. “Ribbons, really. How...girlish.”

“Ribbons?” John inquired. “What ribbons? I was talking about the matador hat. It looks like a deformed Mickey Mouse cap.” Once again, Rodney was flailing his arms and two purple-dyed doves flew out of his sleeves.

“Stop laughing at me,” Rodney demanded. “His hair is full of ribbons, and I really can’t believe he would attend this event bare-chested. How uncouth.”

“He’s not half-naked,” John argued. “That’s one of those bolero jackets, you know? Short, but not that short. And he’s got a shirt on.”

“John, have you been sneaking Vicar Zippy’s absinthe again?” Rodney asked earnestly. “I warned you before, John, that the stuff would rot your brain.”

“You think you’re not a clown,” John shot back, scowling. He’d only raided the chaplain’s supplies that one time, but he was never going to live it down. “So I don’t think you get to say anything about anyone, Rodney.”

“Yes, yes, and you’re dressed as what, dare I ask? Scheherazade’s temple-boy?” Rodney snarked.

“Um...” John looked down at his flight suit once again. “Not exactly. This is nothing special,” He admitted. “I didn’t have time to change after work. Too much traffic, was running late. You know how it goes.”

Rodney snorted. “You wore that in public? I’m appalled. And how could you find traffic to slow you down? No one ventures out on this night, except to attend festivities.”

“No-fly-zone,” John grated out. “I had to taxi in.”

“Right,” Rodney muttered, shaking his head. Only John would manage to locate a detour between the city and the Duchess’s estate. It served him right, however, for calling Rodney a clown.

Just then, a hush fell over the crowd. They all turned in unison as Weir made her grand entrance and the band struck up a march.

“Wow,” John whispered, taking in the General’s costume. Every year she chose a different warrior; this year she was Joan of Arc. He could tell she’d had costume designers working on the thing ever since the end of the last party; every detail was perfect. John almost glanced behind her to see if someone was carrying in a stake so she could be tied to it and burned.

Or not; it really didn’t pay to kill off a General.

Rodney, meanwhile, simply stared. She was Elizabeth, perfect in her formidable beauty as tiny diamonds and crystals reflected light and silver ropes twined about her gown. A statue carved of tears would’ve paled in comparison.

A riotous cheer rose up from the crowd as she descended, ending with several enthusiastic shouts. Weir immediately spotted her two best men and approached them without delay.

Rodney bowed low as the Duchess deigned to stop before him. At the same time, John saluted his General. “Rodney, John,” Elizabeth murmured, nodding at both in acknowledgement. “I see you found costumes most appropriate to your stations.”

Both John and Rodney smirked, knowing they were each right in their own assessments. “Of course,” John demurred. “We have reputations to uphold.”

“Exactly,” Rodney said firmly, happy that Lady Elizabeth saw him for what he was—and not as a clown.

“I trust you are enjoying Halloween?” She inquired politely, eyeing each man carefully. They nodded, unwilling to confess any unpleasantries. In any other circumstance, Rodney would have been happy to expand upon John’s overweening idiocy, but not tonight. The last time someone had ruined the Duchess’s evening by complaining... well, suffice to say that unfortunate individual was still recovering—almost a decade later.

“Excellent,” She stated before suddenly turning serious. “However, even in times of celebration, our work must continue. Tonight presents us with the opportunity to make serious inroads in our recent struggles.”

Rodney’s ears perked up immediately. An adventure would be just the thing to take his mind of recent insults to his standing. “What kind of opportunity?” He asked quietly.

“Our enemies have obtained several items of great value, hoping to use them against us,” She told Rodney, leaning in to keep their conversation private.

John also moved closer. “Their operatives have placed this material in highly secure locations not far from here,” She continued.

“Which locations?” John wanted to know.

“The spies we sent amongst them have informed that even my own crofters are involved, helping to shelter the enemy,” Elizabeth muttered. Rodney was aghast; enemies so close? It was almost incomprehensible.

“What about extraction?” John wondered.

“They are vigilant and we can’t get any teams close to their locations,” She said, “However, tonight we can make another attempt; the holiday’s disorganization will make detection very difficult.”

Rodney’s mind was already plotting. Yes, indeed! An intrigue, secreting his way into the homes of her enemies, stealing away their treasures with the vile owners left unawares.

John put together a team, trying to decide between Bates and Stackhouse. If only Ford hadn’t turned up a traitor; he’d have been perfect. Unfortunately the man was on the other side now.

“I want the two of you to investigate each home in this area and retrieve the items of interest,” Weir ordered. “By hook or by crook, you will bring me those treasures!”

Rodney nodded solemnly, knowing that while he would miss the ball, his reward would be far greater than a few hours of dancing and food.

“You are free to use whatever means necessary,” She told them, “No one outside these grounds can be considered an ally.”

“Understood,” John replied seriously. “The team members—

“Colonel, Doctor, I am entrusting you two to complete this task,” She concluded, “Any others may arouse their suspicions.”

With that, Weir swept off to the dance floor where Caldwell was waiting. “She wants me to take you?” John asked Rodney. “Dressed like that?”

Rodney’s glare could’ve cut through solid steel. “I realize you have a uniformly low opinion of me, Sheppard, but might I remind you that I have proved useful in the past?”

John sighed. “Yes, but you didn’t look like you belonged in a sideshow!”

“I don’t now,” Rodney insisted as he stomped off. If they were going on an adventure, he needed supplies. John was right behind him as they went to Weir’s storerooms.

“Can’t you... change or something?” John asked while he chose a couple of sidearms and a grenade or two. “You know, less obvious?”

Rodney looked down at his perfectly tied cravat. “I am not the one dressed to draw attention to myself,” He retorted, pointing at John’s form-fitting attire.

John smirked at the noise-maker that appeared in Rodney’s hand. “If you screw this up, Rodney...”

“It’s not me who’s going to cause problems,” Rodney grumbled. He would blend right in, but everyone was going to notice John’s literally flaming costume. Who wouldn’t stare? His nicely toned muscles stood out and practically nothing was left to the imagination. Nothing at all.

John opened his mouth to argue, but the door to the storeroom opened and Weir walked in. “I expected better of my two best toy soldiers,” She murmured, frowning severely. “You do not have time for petty bickering.”

“He’s insulting my costume and wants me to change it,” Rodney protested. “He says it will cause problems.”

Weir’s eyebrows shot up. “Does he now?” She replied, giving John an odd look. “Let’s see...”

She studied Rodney for a moment, and then John, before turning to the far wall and walking over to the mirror mounted there. It lifted off easily so she carried it back to where they were and held it up for them to see.

“I believe you are equally matched,” She declared as Rodney and John blinked at their reflections.

In the mirror they saw matching toy soldiers, formal uniforms crisp with shiny brass buttons and tall, stiff hats. “Oh,” John whispered, more than a little confused. He looked down at himself and saw his flight suit. Rodney was, in fact, still a clown—but not in the mirror.

Rodney’s mouth screwed into a pucker as he studied the mirror’s image. He knew he wasn’t a toy soldier, and nor was John. Yet that was what the mirror showed, the two of them like perfect dolls. There might have even been joints painted on his face for his jaw.

“Now, you two must leave,” She demanded, setting the mirror against the wall. As soon as the door closed behind her, Rodney reached for the mirror.

“Oh wow,” He murmured, amazed that the mirror now showed what he saw—he was not a clown, and John was an acrobat.

Beside him, John was less pleased. “What the hell is that?” He asked, pointing to himself in the mirror. “I’m wearing spandex!”

“I told you, you’re an acrobat,” Rodney replied. “See? An acrobat!”

John grabbed the mirror out of Rodney’s hands. As he did, the image changed. Now John was in his flight suit and Rodney was a clown. “No, you’re a clown,” John insisted, nodding at the mirror.

Rodney winced as he took in the sight of himself in a garish clown outfit. “I can’t believe it; you really do see me as a clown!” Yes, Rodney had been cruel to John a time or two, but surely he didn’t deserve this kind of insult.

“Yeah, well, you put me in spandex,” John muttered unhappily. “I look like a freaking...”

“Acrobat,” Rodney snapped. “You look like someone who flies for a living, John. Flight suit, acrobat costume, what’s the difference? At least I see you somewhat like you are.”

“What’s wrong with clowns?” John asked. “Or do you have a phobia?”

“Clowns,” Rodney grated out as he took the mirror back, “Are an expression of the id. They’re all impulse, hostility and aggression channeled into humor. No one takes them seriously, at least not until some hack writer turns them into monsters. They entertain children—I hate children—and they’re stupid. Dumb, stupid clowns. I don’t know why I’m mad at you, John, but it could be that you see me as a fool!”

“I don’t—

Kavanagh burst into the room, interrupting John’s denial. “You two have got to get out of here; if Weir finds out you’re hanging around she’s going to throw a fit!”

Rodney set the mirror down and retrieved his gear, while John did the same. On the way out of the room, however, he picked up the mirror. It was strange, that mirror, and John wanted to know why they saw different things in it.

“Couldn’t you have found a hand mirror?” Rodney griped when he saw John’s burden. “Instead of that gilded monstrosity?”

“I thought we were in a hurry,” John snarled. “Besides, we’ll be able to see more with this thing; it’s a lot bigger than a vanity mirror.”

Rodney stopped to turn around and glare at John. “And why, pray tell, do we need to stare continuously into a mirror?”

“If we don’t see the same thing when we look at each other, what do you think we’re going to see out there?” John asked honestly. “It could come in handy.”

“Fine,” Rodney snapped, a loud honking noise following as he shook his head. John bit back a grin—it was obvious that Rodney wasn’t seeing or hearing the gags—and continued outside. As soon as they cleared the mansion’s entranceway, Rodney headed left, while John went straight forward.

“Where are you going?” John called out, pausing in the driveway. “My jet’s over here.”

“To fetch my carriage,” Rodney replied with clear disdain. “The distance to the Duchess’s neighbors is too far for us to walk.”

John went over to join Rodney. “I know, but my ride’s faster. You know it is.”

Rodney thought about John’s carriage, which was pulled by four of the meanest, blackest, wildest horses man ever tried to tame. Of course it was faster; it was also a nauseatingly jolting ride. Rodney’s horses were docile, safe and...slow. “Alright, but if you let one of those beasts take a bite out of me, I’ll have you bound, gagged and loaded as freight on the next cargo ship south.”

John shook his head and led Rodney over to his jet, grimacing as he saw that someone had double-parked a Toyota next to him. He was going to have to run over the General’s shrubbery to get out, and he’d still hit the Beetle in doing so. “Rodney, you do realize that I fly a jet, which has no horses involved, right?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Rodney declared. John shrugged and held the mirror up, pointing with two fingers at his jet. Rodney waddled around the mirror—well, to John it looked like waddling—and peered in.

“See?” John prompted. “Jet, not carriage. No horses.”

Rodney sighed. “Yes, yes, you fly a jet. Where do you intend to put the mirror? That thing isn’t built for toting home décor.”

“There’s room behind with you,” John replied.

Getting Rodney into the jet wasn’t easy, although he didn’t slip as much as John thought he would. It wasn’t until John remembered that to Rodney, those shoes weren’t oversized clown footwear that he understood why. “Ok, hand me the damned mirror,” Rodney groused once he was securely strapped in. The mirror just fit in front of his knees; once it was in place, John strapped himself in and lowered the canopy.

“Do watch out for our fellow partygoers,” Rodney directed when John started edging his way towards the main path.

John ignored Rodney’s instructions as he made his way to the tarmac. Since everyone was still partying, there wasn’t much of a wait and he quickly got them in the air. Rodney’s rather unmanly squeak as they took off was most gratifying.

“Could you slow down?” Rodney pleaded as his stomach began climbing into his throat. “Or provide a courtesy bag?”

John gritted his teeth, but he didn’t slow down. “If you hurl in my jet, I’m kicking your ass.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Which is such a good idea; maybe I can vomit all over you as well. That’s the first house; you’re going to miss it!”

John pulled up and landed at the house’s airstrip, wishing this suburb of DC had installed better landing lights. The night was still clear in their immediate area, but he could see clouds building in the distance. He hoped the weather held, though; it was already chilly and he didn’t want to add wet discomfort to the list of things Rodney griped about.

Rodney shoved the mirror out of the way and stepped out of the carriage, still slightly unnerved that John saw it so differently. The horses were there, glaring evil equine death at Rodney and snapping at him as he walked past. “I really, really hate them,” He swore, stepping away from the beasts.

John laughed at Rodney’s antics as the clown waved his bunch of fake flowers at the nose of his jet. Knowing Rodney saw something different than he did didn’t make the scene any less amusing.

The house they were visiting wasn’t particularly striking; a wide, pumpkin-decorated veranda surrounded the first floor and the front door was covered in cheerful Halloween pictures. “This is gonna be easy,” John boasted as they climbed a short flight of stairs and pushed the doorbell.

“Well hello there, dearies,” Came a creaky, soft voice. The door opened to reveal an elderly lady, her back curved by age. Bright blue eyes twinkled beneath snowy brows and Rodney was reminded of his grandmother, before she passed away.

“Trick or treat,” John said wryly, feeling a touch foolish. Only children went trick-or-treating, but it was as good a way of any to start the conversation. He couldn’t imagine this little old lady working for any subversive group, but they had to visit every house in the area. Maybe she’d just cough up what they needed and he wouldn’t have to hurt her.

The old lady laughed and reached for a nearby basket. “I so love this night,” She said, holding the basket out. “Little boys and girls running about, all wearing their fiercest costumes. And what are you two little men tonight?”

“A fighter pilot,” John said, silently daring Rodney to contradict him.

Rodney smirked but answered the old lady instead of arguing with John. “And I am Michael Faraday.”

Regardless of what each man thought of the others’ outfits, the old lady nodded solemnly. “And you both look quite dashing,” She declared. “Here, dearhearts, have a treat.”

John peered into the basket, seeing that it was full of fruit. It wasn’t the kind of thing he was expecting, but the lady had such a hopeful look on her face. Too hopeful; he suspected she was trying to tell him something. Every second he delayed taking a treat she brought the basket closer. Maybe whatever they needed was hidden in the fruits...

“Not that one,” Rodney barked when John began to reach for a navel orange. “No citrus.”

“How about apples?” The old lady offered, pulling out two perfect red apples. She handed them to John, who in turn pushed one into Rodney’s waiting hand. “They’re the first of the season. Crisp and tart.”

“Thank you kindly,” Rodney murmured, shooting John an evil glare. How could he even think of taking citrus with them? What if it accidentally got too near Rodney? He could die!

As they walked away, John lit into Rodney. “What were you thinking?” He growled. “The objective could’ve been hidden in that orange.”

“And of course you would have no problem finishing this adventure if I was lying dead somewhere, having been poisoned by your precious orange,” Rodney retorted. “The old lady gave us the apples; they’re what we need to take back with us.”

“Unless she was tricking us,” John said. “Then we’re in trouble.”

“If you want to go back and get the orange, fine—just don’t bring it into the carriage,” Rodney bit out. “I’d really rather not die, if it’s not too much trouble for you.”

“I think this mission is more important than whether you get a skin rash from sitting too near an orange!” John shouted. “I’m not going to make you eat it, Rodney.”

Rodney was winding up to take John’s head off when he saw something moving behind John. “What in the hell is that?” He asked worriedly, peering over John’s shoulder.

It took John a moment to respond, since he was distracted by the small mouse now sitting on top of Rodney’s hat. “What is what?” He asked, even as he turned around—and saw the thick, curling mist that was creeping up behind him.

“That stuff,” Rodney said, pointing at the mist. “There’s more,” He continued, looking around. “Why is it... it’s surrounding us, John.” Indeed, the mist was thickening; wide bands of it were forming between them and the jet. After only a few seconds, visibility was perilously close to nil.

“We’re outta here,” John stated, latching onto Rodney’s arm with his free hand. Rodney didn’t complain; he simply clambered into the jet and stashed the apples in his gear while John got them back on the runway.

“So, mist bad,” Rodney surmised once they were in the air. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

John tried to ignore the confetti raining down on his head. “No, and could you stop moving your hands so much?”

“My hands?” Rodney asked, peering at his palms. They looked perfectly normal to him. “I always talk with my hands. You know that, John, and you’ve never complained about it before. Not that it would matter, though; your petty complaints aren’t about to make me change a lifetime’s worth of habits.”

John wished he wasn’t flying; he needed to keep his wits about him and not bang his head into the control panel. “You’re a clown, McKay. Yeah, yeah, I know you don’t think you are, but to me? You’re a clown. Clowns do funny things with their hands. You juggle and pull quarters and pingpong balls out of weird places. You do magic tricks and you’ve got to have a thousand pigeons shoved up your sleeves. And right now you’re throwing confetti everywhere and it’s getting in my eyes!”

Rodney didn’t know what to say. The fact that John still saw him as a clown was so unnerving he wanted to climb up to where John was in the driver’s seat and bash his head in. At the same time, though, Rodney understood John’s frustration. After all, Rodney himself had to put up with John parading around looking more naked than if he’d actually been in the nude. To say John was distracting was an understatement. So Rodney stayed silent, his hands tucked under his thighs. Just this once; after they got to the next house Rodney wasn’t doing John any more favors.

Fortunately they arrived shortly thereafter. John climbed down, eager to be away from the uncomfortable quiet that stretched between himself and Rodney. This second house was much nicer than the first, more along the lines of what he’d expected from the General’s neighborhood. The stonework here was impressive, towering high above immaculately manicured gardens. In the distance John saw a group of revelers, dancing around a bonfire. Perhaps they could spend a few minutes at the party before they went on. No, no, he told himself, giving his head a hard shake. They were on a mission and missions didn’t include frolicking with the enemy.

“Chocolate,” Rodney prayed as they approached the door. “No more apples. Let it be chocolate.”

“Not that you can eat any of it,” John warned the dancing clown that was his partner. “It’s for Weir, remember?”

“I know,” Rodney hissed, “It’s the principle of the thing. Halloween equals candy, not fruit.”

The door in front of them was graced with a heavy, traditional knocker, which John lifted and dropped. A loud boom echoed through the door, which opened immediately thereafter.

“Happy Halloween.”

John stared, mouth agape, at the house’s resident. She was gorgeous--sloe eyes, long dark hair and the kind of body that usually graced his pinup calendar. “Hi,” He murmured, grinning madly. At least this part of the mission wouldn’t be so bad.

“John,” Rodney whispered angrily. “What the hell are you doing?” He couldn’t understand why John was staring at that atrocious hag. Did she have no decency at all? What little clothing she had on revealed more than it concealed, and even Rodney could see the lines on her face, seeping through the makeup she had slathered on so thickly. The image was as unappealing as anything Rodney had ever seen.

“Please, enter,” She said, opening the door to reveal a room full of children. They were dressed for the holiday and were playing some nameless childhood game that involved running around in circles and screaming a lot. Rodney stayed back even as John stepped forward eagerly.

“I’ll just wait here,” Rodney said, scowling at John. “You, you go play with Mata Hari.”

“Rodney,” John warned, “Do try to be polite to the nice lady.” If Rodney was mad at him about the clown thing, that was fine, but he shouldn’t take it out on the locals. People this pretty and nice couldn’t be the enemy, John thought.

Rodney ignored John and turned back to the carriage. Maybe if he fetched the mirror and showed John what he saw, they could get out of the house intact. Rodney had a very bad feeling about this place; unlike the first house, they hadn’t simply been offered treats at the door. They were amongst the enemy; spies lurked everywhere. This woman could well be one of them, trying to prevent them from completing their duties to the Duchess.

The mirror was easily gotten, but lugging it back to the house was a chore. Rodney berated John all the way to the door, wishing once again he’d gotten something lighter than this thing. Who needed a full-length mirror to see the truth when a simple looking glass would suffice?

The door was still open, so Rodney slipped inside. John was clear across the enormous entryway, standing next to a lit fireplace. Beside him stood the hag, her hand resting on his arm. All around the children swarmed, giggling and throwing toys.

“John,” Rodney barked, trying to catch John’s attention. “I need you to look at something.”

John tore his gaze away from their host so he could shut Rodney up. A few of those annoying, multicolored pigeons escaped Rodney’s sleeves, flying madly around the room. Bird droppings were not going endear them to the lady, John knew that for sure. “What?” He asked, stomping carefully around all the children.

“Look!” Rodney said, holding up the mirror.

“At what?” John replied harshly. “At kids? At a fireplace? At me?”

Rodney swiveled the mirror, trying to catch the hag in its sights. “No, at her,” He told John as he finally got her. “See? That’s what I see.”

John stared at the mirror. “You are one sick bastard,” He swore. “Whatever you’ve been smoking, keep it clear of me.”

“Fine,” Rodney snapped, shoving the mirror into John’s hands. “Show me what you see, then.”

John took the mirror and focused it on the lady—but now she wasn’t so pretty. “I don’t understand...” John began slowly. He turned around to look at her, and once again she was her gorgeous self. He checked the mirror again, but in it she was a nasty old hag. “Rodney?”

“I don’t understand it either,” Rodney said, “But if both of us see that in the mirror...”

“Yeah,” John murmured. It really was too bad; she was a pretty woman. “Ok, let’s get the treats and get out of here. I want this mission over with.” When he couldn’t flirt with the ladies or eat the candy, there wasn’t much for him to do.

“So,” Rodney said as he approached the woman. Now that he was closer to her, he could smell her—and it wasn’t good. She was really foul, like a three-day dead corpse. “Trick or treat?”

Her laugh was abrasive and exposed rotting teeth. “You play children’s games, at your age?” She replied, blinking in what Rodney guessed as a flirtatious manner. On her it looked rather like a seizure.

“Yes, yes I do,” Rodney grumbled. “And I’d much prefer a treat right now.”

The lady was taken aback by his abrupt behavior. “I believe I prefer the company of your friend.”

“You would,” Rodney stated. “But he’s not quite as smart as I am. I know what you’re up to; you’re trying to stop us.”

“Stop you? Never,” She demurred. “You should stay awhile and entertain my children. They do so love clowns.”

“We’d love to,” John said smoothly, “But we have a tight schedule to keep tonight. Perhaps another time.”

“Or maybe you should stay now,” She demanded, eyes narrowing into slits. “I haven’t had company in so long and the children need entertainment.” Her hands were like claws as they reached out, trying to grasp John’s arms. Rodney yanked him back, sending a bevy of pingpong balls at her face.

“Nice trick,” John told him as the edged away. The longer the lady glared at them, the more he could see the hag behind her pretty façade. It was disorienting, watching his perceptions change, but Rodney was right behind him.

“I don’t think you should come any closer,” Rodney said, tightening his grip on the mirror.

“And why not?” She cackled. “You’re already in my house; keeping you here poses no difficulty.”

Rodney stepped around John. “Somehow I doubt your rugrats know what you really look like,” He replied, holding up the mirror. “If you don’t fork over the treats and let us go, they’re going to get an eyeful.”

The lady screeched when she saw her reflection. “Put that away!” She demanded, cowering closer to the fire. “You can have your damned treats, just cover that up!”

John moved in front of the mirror and held his hand out expectantly. The lady fumbled around in the pockets of her dress, finally extracting two items. She slapped them at John’s palm and pointed at the door, growling when they didn’t move quickly enough.

Rodney hauled the mirror alongside John as they trotted to the exit, not pausing until they were back at the carriage. “Next time, you get the mirror. This thing weighs a ton.”

“Toothbrushes,” John said. “She gave us toothbrushes.”

“She did?” Rodney exclaimed, looking at the objects in John’s hands. “Cheap ones, too. Damn, I wanted chocolate.”

“From her?” John inquired. “Still, what a letdown.” And really, it was. The pretty woman wasn’t so pretty and she gave out toothbrushes. He’d have rather gotten apples. “At least they’re for Weir.”

“The Duchess has a plentiful supply of dental hygiene products,” Rodney commented as he stowed the mirror and the toothbrushes. “And next time, John, do try to think with the head on your shoulders and not the one in your pants.”

“What?” John yelped, spinning around. “Just because she was nice to me—and pretty, at least in the beginning—doesn’t mean I was thinking with my dick!”

“You were too thinking with your penis!” Rodney accused. “You were practically drooling. What am I supposed to tell Weir when you end up dead because you were panting after some floozy? If I can even get back to her mansion; you’re the only one who can control those blasted horses.”

“I am not going to jeopardize our mission,” John swore. “It doesn’t have to be torture, visiting all these houses. Well it does now that you’re here; you could make an orgy into a chore.” As he spoke, Rodney waved his hands and produced a cymbal-playing monkey, complete with miniature red fez. It hopped around John’s feet, making an awful racket.

“This isn’t supposed to be fun,” Rodney grated out, “And if I recall correctly, the very first pretty thing you saw tried to hold us hostage and make us entertain her children. I think that is proof enough you should avoid doing stupid things like being mesmerized by beauty!”

John would’ve taken Rodney more seriously if it wasn’t for the clowning. How was he supposed to fight with a guy who was himself fighting an inflatable snake? John tried to stay serious, but the squeaking noises did it for him; he started to laugh even as he opened his mouth to defend himself.

“You...” Rodney clenched his fists, enraged by John’s amusement. He was not a clown, despite what John thought, and his fears were real. They had houses to visit and an adventure to complete. It was dangerous, that mist was creeping up again behind John and Rodney had had enough.

John wasn’t prepared to get squirted in the eye by Rodney’s fake-flower boutonniere, nor was he anticipating the surprisingly skilled punch Rodney threw at his stomach. He doubled over in pain, eyes burning from whatever was in the flower and torso aching from the direct hit.

“John?” Rodney asked, worried that his loss of control had inflicted real damage. He reached out, but John suddenly stood up and did a rather amazing backflip, catching Rodney in the chest with his feet. Rodney went sailing right into a slick patch of grass, sliding across the lawn to land against a piece of gaudy plaster statuary. He struggled to his feet and barreled toward John, who sidestepped just late enough for Rodney to get a handhold on his arm.

They tumbled to the ground together, fingers clawing and feet kicking. “Sonofabitch,” John shouted, landing a solid punch to Rodney’s midsection.

“Whore,” Rodney spat back, pressing his fingers into John’s throat. John gasped for air, but Rodney didn’t pause in his retaliation, aiming for John’s eyes. In return, John pummeled Rodney’s ribs and back, drawing pained gasps from the man.

Rodney managed to roll them over and was about to give John a very hard kick to the groin when he saw it—the mist. It was curling around the carriage’s wheels, scaring the horses. More of the mist was crawling towards them, having moved closer while they were distracted by their bickering. “Come on,” He said, hauling John up by one arm, “We’ll deal with this later.”

John yanked himself free of Rodney’s hold, but saw the mist forming and forced himself to calm down. “Get in,” He ordered curtly. As soon as the canopy was down, John taxied to the runway and took off, mist slowly dispersing as they took to the sky. Lightning flashed in the distance and John knew they wouldn’t be finished before the storm hit.

Rodney wasn’t sure if it was the storm or John’s mood, but the trip to the next house was bumpier than usual. He clamped down on a wave of nausea, gingerly holding his stomach. Between their ill-advised little altercation and this storm, Rodney wasn’t in top form.

The weather got worse with each passing minute and John knew Rodney couldn’t be comfortable. The fact that he wasn’t bitching incessantly about turbulence worried John somewhat; normally Rodney talked non-stop, particularly if he got to denigrate John at the same time. Silence swarmed through the jet, however, and by the time John landed, he was seriously concerned.

“Hey,” John said as Rodney joined him on the ground, “We’ve only got five stops left.”

Rodney shrugged and slung his carryall over one shoulder before hoisting the mirror. John reached for it, unnerved by the way Rodney looked. It didn’t seem right for a clown to be so exhausted. When Rodney let go of the mirror and flexed his fingers to relieve their aching joints, only a couple of ragged golf balls spilled forth to roll under the jet and out of sight. Even Rodney’s squirting boutonniere was wilted, hanging forlornly from his lapel.

“So,” John began when they reached their current location’s entranceway, “I don’t think we need to worry about femme fatales this time.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” Rodney sniped, looking around at the trashy, run-down excuse for a mansion that had to be killing the area’s property values. “Was it the row of junked cars, or the vinyl siding?”

“I’ve never seen a mansion done in vinyl siding and aluminum roofing before,” John admitted. “It’s different.”

When Rodney hit the doorbell, a burst of music came forth. “Please tell me that’s not—

“Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox If I Die,” John confirmed. “Um...

The door opened to reveal a bear of a man, three teen-aged boys and a pair of middle-aged women. “Howdy,” The man said, grinning toothlessly. “Nice night for a walk, ain’t it?”

“We drove,” Rodney replied, trying not to stare at the accumulated people. One of the women opened a snuff tin, while the other held out a small spittoon.

“Trick or treat,” John said quickly, before Rodney could actually insult these people. He didn’t see any weapons, but the teenagers were glaring sullenly at Rodney and himself. At least these people were obvious threats, with the pack of attack dogs that lounged around their feet. No subterfuge, no false fronts. Just pure, unadulterated...stench. The wafting body odor was remarkable for its strength.

“Ain’t you a bit old?” One boy asked, snickering at Rodney. “That’s kid stuff.”

“Now, boy,” The big man warned, smacking the teenager on the head with a huge hand, “That’s no way to act.”

“Make’em to through the haunted house,” A second adolescent recommended.

“Yeah,” One woman agreed as she spat into her spittoon.

“Don’t they gotta pay?” The other lady asked. “Everybody else gotta pay.”

“Er, we’re really just here for the trick-or-treating,” John explained.

The huge man peered down at John and Rodney. “You’re not from ‘round these parts, are you?” He asked in a drawl. “We got the best haunted house on the East Coast. Better than the crap the Jaycees’re sellin’ down at the Expo Center.”

“I’m sure it’s an excellent haunted house,” Rodney agreed amiably, really not wanting to get into an argument with this crowd.

“Usually costs ten bucks a head,” The man continued as though Rodney hadn’t spoken. “But we don’t get many grownups trick-r-treatin’ over here. You want candy, you go through the house. Free of charge.”

John looked over at Rodney. How bad could a haunted house be? “Alright,” John said.

The group moved back so John and Rodney could pass. “You gotta go all the way through,” One lady insisted. “You come back out this way, you don’t get no candy.”

“Understood,” John assured her. The man pointed at a stairwell that led upwards into a darkened hallway. As John and Rodney approached, they heard a low, creaking moan.

“Did I mention how much I hate haunted houses?” Rodney hissed at John when they reached the stairs. “As in, I’d rather deflower Kavanagh than go through one?”

John batted away the crepe-paper snake that popped out of Rodney’s palm when he gestured angrily. “This’ll be a piece of cake, Rodney. A few fake zombies, a couple of pints of cheap corn-syrup blood and we’ll be finished.”

Rodney stopped halfway up the stairwell, wincing as his shoes made contact with something squishy. He couldn’t see more than a couple of feet in front of him and cobwebs were already caught in his hair. “Do you even remember the last place we visited?” He asked John. “Mirror, lady, ugly? And you think this haunted house is going to be easy?”

John set the mirror down on a stair and sighed. “Yeah, I know,” He said, glancing down the stairwell where the family was still standing. “I don’t think we want to take them on.”

“Of course we don’t,” Rodney agreed, “That one woman could break me in half.”

“Right,” John concurred, nodding; she had been a bit of an bear. “So let’s get going.”

At the top of the stairs, the two men found themselves staring down a long, narrow hallway. Eerie orangeish lighting barely illuminated the space, casting deep shadows along the walls. The wind whipping at them didn’t feel artificial, nor did the moist fog that floated at their feet. “I did tell you just how much I hate haunted houses?” Rodney whined as John led the way.

“Yes, you did,” John confirmed. “Even if you hadn’t said it, I’d have known.”

Rodney would’ve snarked something in reply, but he was too busy staring at the scene to his left. A low whimper escaped his mouth when he saw some sort of many-armed, slimy creature crawl out of a corpse’s throat. It clambered down the body, claws shredding fabric and flesh, and made its way towards a trio of cowering youths.

John grabbed Rodney’s arm and dragged him away just before the creature ripped one of its victims’ heads off. “We have to make it through this thing, but we don’t actually have to look at the scenes,” He whispered to Rodney.

“We don’t?” Rodney asked, staring now at the most horrific witch he’d ever seen. She was stirring a cauldron—with what appeared to be an arm.

“Come to visit, ‘ave you?” She cackled, eyeing John and Rodney speculatively. “I’ve a need for fresh meat. Come, sit with me...”

“Right, no looking,” Rodney agreed when John dragged him down the hall again. “Ok, so extremely realistic...” He paused as a series of spine-tingling howls echoed through the hallway, “But no more dangerous than any other haunted house.”

“Exactly,” John confirmed. “And no, you aren’t going to look at the zombies on your left, or the axe murderer on your right.”

Rodney tried not to look, but he couldn’t help himself. When he did, however, he was glad he’d succumbed to the temptation. “John!” Rodney shouted, turning quickly to push John to the gritty floor. As they fell, the axe murderer spun past, his weapon dancing just a little too closely to Rodney’s head. He watched as it sliced down, gouging the floor. “That’s no prop,” Rodney croaked while John rolled away and stood.

“Ok, more dangerous than usual,” John said, keeping an eye out for the axe murderer as he helped Rodney to his feet. A glimmer of movement out of the corner of his eye was all the warning John needed; he shoved Rodney to the side and spun around, drawing his sidearm.

The axe murder fell at John’s feet, blood spattering everywhere. He made a cursory check, but the man—thing—whatever it was had died immediately. “Rodney?” He called out, not seeing his partner.

“Murgh,” Rodney mumbled, his voice muffled by wads of filthy fabric. He was being held down by three zombies as they poked and prodded, smearing disgusting stuff all over him. John had unwittingly given him over to them in an effort to keep Rodney away from the guy with the axe.

John threw one zombie over to the axe murderer, whose corpse soon drew the attention of the others. “You ok?” He asked Rodney as they stumbled back into the hallway proper and away from the grisly scene behind them.

“No,” Rodney gasped, wiping at his face. “This stuff stings. A lot.”

John paused and peered closely at Rodney’s face, its makeup now smeared with something that smelled like sulfur. “Ok, we’re getting out of here, forget the mission.” He could see Rodney’s eyes beginning to swell due to the substance; if he was allergic to it there was no way they were going to finish their job. John couldn’t do it alone, not and keep Rodney alive through a medical emergency.

“Hurry,” Rodney whispered, still trying to wipe the stuff off. “It’s burning.”

John grabbed Rodney’s arm and quickly led him through the hallway. He would’ve turned back, but the zombies were gathering into some kind of group, marching towards them with typical zombie-like menace. Instead they went deeper into the haunted house, dodging bats and snarling dogs.

Rodney gasped when John flung him against the wall—just in time to avoid being trampled by what sounded like a horse. He couldn’t actually see anything, but it sounded horse-like.

“Headless horseman,” John murmured, “Carrying a flaming jack-o-lantern.”

“Thanks,” Rodney whispered, hands clawing at John’s arm. “Out?”

“Right,” John said, getting them moving once again. Rodney was moving more slowly and his breathing sounded labored. If they didn’t find water or something else to help clean him up, John wasn’t sure they’d get out at all.

“Wait,” Rodney heaved, scrabbling for his carryall. John frowned for a moment before seeing what Rodney was fumbling for—his epinephrine.

Rodney tried to get the pen uncapped, but his fingers were swollen and stiff, to the point he could barely keep hold of it at all. “Here,” John said, reaching for the pen. He flipped the cap off and tugged Rodney around, tugging at filthy clothing until he found bare skin.

The shot hurt, but Rodney sighed with relief anyway. He should’ve used it right after he got hit by the zombies, but at the time it didn’t seem so bad. Its effects were immediate; he could breathe more easily even if his heart was pounding. “Better,” He told John, steadying himself on the wall.

“We’ll find some water,” John insisted, seeing that Rodney’s skin was getting worse. “Come on.”

The next pair of scenes were pretty typical haunted-house faire: a mad scientist and his creation, along with a deranged priest and a demon. They slid through the hallway, ducking a couple of flying objects and the arcing electricity from the scientist’s machines.

“Am I glad I couldn’t see that?” Rodney asked John, batting at cobwebs as they walked. “It sounded nasty.”

“You’re glad,” John said firmly. “Although the special effects could’ve been better.”

“I hear water,” Rodney said, perking up. “Although in this place, I’m not sure it’ll do any good.”

John directed them to the next scene, which spanned both sides of the hallway. It began with a waterfall that spilled into a small pond. A creek drifted out of the pond and through a lush forest. “Ok, we’ve got no obvious monsters,” He told Rodney, “A waterfall and pond on one side, a forest and creek on the other.”

Rodney was silent for a moment. “Waterfall and pond. Probably some kind of water monster you can shoot. The forest will be enchanted and we’ll end up poisoned, trapped or overrun by evil fairies.”

John took Rodney over to the pond, sidearm in one hand as they approached. As Rodney predicted, when they got near a black and green, slimy monster shot out of the water. John took care of it quickly, letting its corpse fall off to the side.

“One water monster out of the way,” John told Rodney, easing the man down to the pond’s bank. He glanced over at the forest. “And you were right, there’s a bunch of smirking fairies in the forest.”

“Ignore them; they’ll try to enchant you,” Rodney warned even as he bent down to the water.

“Here, let me help,” John murmured, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. Rodney leaned on his side, letting John wipe off his face. “This isn’t working,” He griped as thick white clown makeup smeared around. “It’s just getting worse.”

“Damnit,” Rodney cursed. “It hurts, John, and I’m blind!”

“I know,” John muttered. “Ok, change of plans.” He peered into the water, which didn’t seem too bad now that the monster was out of it. John edged closer, sliding into the cold pond with barely a hiss.

“John?” Rodney queried when he heard the noise. “What are you doing?”

“Shift over this way,” John ordered, pulling Rodney towards him. “It’ll be faster if you’re in the water.”

Rodney didn’t bother complaining; he simply sank down into the water, grateful for the relief it brought. John resumed cleaning his face, this time using a handful of Rodney’s shirt that wasn’t covered in slime. Rodney was obediently still as John worked, each stroke removing caustic sludge and runny face paint. The thick makeup seemed to have provided a measure of protection; the skin beneath it wasn’t as damaged as John feared it would be.

“There’s another cloth in my bag,” Rodney murmured, gesturing at the carryall he’d left on the bank. John found the cloth—and some lotion, a tube of soap, antibiotic ointment, gauze, bandages, aspirin and a thermometer.

“You’re either a boy scout or a hypochondriac,” John told him as he lathered up the cloth. “Why didn’t you tell me about the soap?”

“I forgot,” Rodney said sheepishly. “I was more focused on the burning-itching-scarring goo than the soap in my kit.”

“It’s not gonna scar,” John replied, studying Rodney’s face. He’d gotten most of the stuff off and was now working carefully around Rodney’s eyes. Without the white and red makeup, Rodney looked like John remembered—pale skin and dark hair, mouth twisted in a frown.

“We’ll see,” Rodney said doubtfully. “I need to rinse my eyes,” He stated, gesturing again at the bag. “I’ve got eye drops in there somewhere.”

John searched through the bag again and found a bottle of saline. “Tilt your head back,” He ordered, using one hand to pry Rodney’s eyelids open. The whites were irritated and red, but John could tell Rodney could see—his eyes were simply swollen shut, not seriously damaged.

“Better?” John asked once they were finished. “I think you’re pretty much slime-free.” Indeed, Rodney’s clothes were in better shape, too, despite a few holes where the slime had eaten through. The water had dissolved most of it and John had gotten the rest.

“Cold, wet and itchy, but otherwise fine,” Rodney confirmed, blinking furiously. “And I can see a little, too.”

“Good,” John replied, climbing out of the water. He took Rodney’s hands and helped him out as well. “You look different,” He mentioned, seeing now that Rodney didn’t look like a clown anymore. Instead, his clothing was more normal—casual trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. The wide belt and sturdy work boots weren’t what Rodney normally wore, and nor was the rough leather coat. Still, it was far better than the clown costume.

Rodney glanced down at himself. “Huh,” He hummed, “So I do.”

“You can see that?” John asked, curious. “I thought you always looked different from what I saw.”

“I did,” Rodney said, “But I didn’t look like this, either.”

“Weird,” John told him, “But better than the clown.”

“The clown wasn’t my fault,” Rodney accused as he picked up his tote. “You’re the one who thinks I’m a clown. Which is ridiculous; I’ve done a great many things during our shared work, but I’ve never been a buffoon.”

John sighed and led Rodney over the creek—making sure they didn’t step in it—and down the hallway. “I don’t think you’re just a source of amusement,” He tried to explain.

“Right,” Rodney huffed, rubbing at his eyes. “So you just decided one day I’d make a good clown?”

“No,” John started, wishing something would come along and attack so he didn’t have to talk. Nothing did, however; the next section of haunted house was devoted to scary noises, not dangerous creatures. “Clowns are safe.”

“Clowns are safe,” Rodney repeated. “Safe?”

“Safe,” John confirmed, “As in, clowns aren’t people, not really. They make you laugh, they joke around and then they go away. They’re not real.”

Rodney thought for a few minutes. “So...you turned me into a clown to protect yourself?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” John admitted. And Rodney was right; John wanted to shield himself. If all he focused on was Rodney’s less appealing traits, he didn’t run the risk of getting too close. Every time he was tempted to touch, John recalled one of Rodney’s less-than-stellar moments. If he kept reminding himself of those times, and not the more numerous instances where Rodney made him weak-kneed, then John stood a chance of not humiliating himself.

“Denial is such an ugly thing,” Rodney said, mostly to himself. “At least I’m honest with myself—something I’d thought about you as well. I suppose I was wrong, though. I mean, I’ve always loved acrobats.”

John blinked, not sure how to take that last comment. Before he had time to process it, however, they found themselves at the exit. A single, short young boy waited by the door, guarding a huge bowl of candy.

“Made it through?” He asked, eyes wide. “First ones tonight.”

“Eh, it was easy,” John stated, even as Rodney reached into the bowl. “Piece of cake.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rodney muttered under his breath, pocketing two generous handfuls of Mars Bars. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside was, if possible, less appealing than the haunted house. The door whipped out of John’s hand as soon as he turned the knob, gale-force winds battering it wide open. “Come on!” He shouted, grabbing at Rodney’s arm. Rain blew almost sideways, so heavy John couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him.

Rodney couldn’t see a thing other than John’s back, so when they reached their transportation he nearly walked right into it. He didn’t even think to be surprised that what used to be John’s carriage now looked like a Studebaker, not until he was safely tucked inside.

“That’s kind of strange,” John said as he shut the cockpit door. “We got here in a jet.”

“Carriage,” Rodney corrected absently. He was cold and wet and wondering if John had spare clothes tucked away somewhere. Who cared what the thing looked like, so long as it got them where they were going?

“But now it’s a C-130,” John continued. “Very, very odd. Weird, even.”

“Weird, odd, whatever. So we’re sitting in a big metal tank. I never pictured you as a Studebaker type, though,” Rodney groused. “Do you have spare clothes in here? Blankets or something? I’m going to get pneumonia.”

“You’re not going to get sick,” John replied, ignoring the Studebaker comment. They were in a cargo plane. “And I’m not sure what I have in here; there wasn’t anything in the jet but a couple of water balloons.”

Rodney frowned. “Water balloons? Why on earth would you have water balloons in your carriage?”

John shrugged and went back to the cargo hold. Maybe there was something stored with the first-aid kit and the parachutes.

Watching John crawl over the front seat was somewhat unusual, but Rodney didn’t mind the sight of slim hips writhing as he disappeared. It wasn’t until John was out of sight that Rodney realized he wasn’t in his acrobat’s costume anymore. Now he looked like a pilot, complete with flowing silk scarf and battered leather jacket. “I’m not asking,” Rodney told himself. “Nope, not asking. And do you want to know why? Because it’s not freaking me out. I don’t know why I’m not losing my mind, but I’m not. Or maybe I’ve lost it and I just don’t care.”

John heard Rodney talking to himself but it didn’t sound overly important. Instead he located a couple of spare sets of fatigues, some blankets and the first aid kit. He didn’t think they actually needed the last item, but maybe Rodney could use something in it to occupy himself. If he was distracted, he wouldn’t tear into John too badly about the denial thing.

“Oh good, you’re back,” Rodney exclaimed gratefully when John climbed back over the front seat. “That mist stuff is here again,” He stated, pointing at the windshield. “It’s trying to get in.”

“We’re safe,” John reminded him as he handed over a couple of blankets and a small stack of dry clothes. “Here, get changed. You’ll feel better.”

Rodney took the blankets and clothes, quickly stripping off his soaked garments. Funny, he clearly remembered putting on his Faraday outfit. These clothes looked nothing like that. Shaking his head at his lack of neurotic hysteria, Rodney dried himself off and struggled into the fatigues, only knocking his knees against the dashboard once or twice.

Meanwhile John did the same, trying very hard not to watch Rodney squirm naked in the seat next to him. The simple relief of being dry did a lot for John’s shaky state of mind. “Hey, a first aid kit,” He heard Rodney say. “Is there anything to eat in there?”

“Take a look yourself,” John suggested, pulling a shirt over his head. It really was too bad his boots were soaking wet; they were going to feel even worse now that the rest of him was dry.

Rodney pawed through the metal container, quickly locating a couple of box lunches and bottles of spring water. “Hungry?” He asked, knowing he could finish off both lunches but figuring it was far more civil of him to at least offer half to John. Even if the man pretended he was a clown.

“Sure,” John replied, taking the MRE and water Rodney offered up. He hated MREs, but there wasn’t anything else to eat besides the candy they’d been collecting. That, of course, was for Weir.

“Mmm,” Rodney hummed, chewing merrily through a surprisingly tasty ham-on-rye sandwich. It even had the good kind of mustard on it, a pickle on the side, and a small package of corn chips as a side dish.

“I still don’t get how you can like these things,” John griped as he squeezed cold, gelatinous MRE goop into his mouth. It was supposed to be chicken something-or-another, but it tasted like day-old hangover to John.

“What about them?” Rodney inquired after swallowing another lovely bite of ham sandwich. “They taste good, they’ve got lots of calories, and they don’t offend anyone’s sensibilities.” After all, who didn’t like ham sandwiches?

“You, Rodney, might just be weirder than the shapeshifting plane thing,” John declared. His MRE done, John turned to his water, hoping it would wash away the nasty taste of his meal.

“As opposed to you, who forced yourself to see me as a clown because I threaten you somehow,” Rodney snapped. “A clown, because clowns aren’t real. What danger is there in me being real?”

“Is the storm letting up?” John asked, ignoring Rodney’s statement. “I think it is; we should get going.”

“You will answer me,” Rodney swore, even as he reached for his seatbelt. Then John was shifting the Studebaker into gear and peeling down the road, tires squealing obscenely in the rain.

John usually didn’t mind flying in foul weather, but then again he wasn’t usually flying a cargo plane. It felt bulky and awkward and completely unlike a jet or a helicopter. He thoroughly hated the damned thing and wondered, as lightning flashed in the distance, why his jet had abandoned him. The cargo plane had to be fifty years old and with the wind blowing like it was, every creak made him worry they wouldn’t survive the short hop to the next house.

Coasting along the driveway was rough, the car shuddering and protesting every inch of the way. Rodney held on for dear life, fingers digging into his seat as he whispered theorems under his breath. Praying was useless, but physics always calmed him down. He wasn’t going to say a word to John, though. Normally he’d be complaining, but Rodney could tell John was doing his best. Rodney couldn’t see a thing out the windshield, even with the wipers swiping furiously.

“We’re here,” John announced as they finally pulled to a stop. “Doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”

Indeed, the house looked completely abandoned. Rodney took in the darkened porch and the plywood-covered windows. The house was huge, a sprawling plantation-style expanse, but its yard was overgrown. He already knew its driveway was in poor condition—they’d hit a dozen potholes since the turnoff. “If nobody lives here, there’s not going to be anything for us to get.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” John replied as he fished around for Rodney’s bag. It had gotten wedged beneath Rodney’s seat, in the back where the man wouldn’t have been able to reach it. “Someone could’ve left something for us, you know.”

“At least an empty house doesn’t have anybody in it to torture us,” Rodney said, trying and failing to sound a little bit optimistic. Glass-half-full wasn’t something he could pull off at the best of times, so this attempt was particularly pathetic.

“Uh huh,” John grunted, pushing the cockpit door open. “Come on.”

Rodney crawled out of the car, instantly shoved against it by the still-buffeting wind. They ran to the house, trying to move faster than the pouring rain. It wasn’t until they reached the place’s boarded-up door that Rodney saw the mirror in John’s hands. “Why did you bring that?”

John set the mirror down. “This thing might come in handy,” He explained while he checked out the door’s reinforcements. They would have to come down in order for himself and Rodney to enter. “You never know. It didn’t work on zombies, but it sure did on that woman.”

“True,” Rodney admitted, “Although if this place really is empty...”

John found the door easy to uncover—someone hadn’t done a very good job of nailing it shut—and tried the knob. It wasn’t locked, although the wood frame was warped from neglect. A couple of firm shoves had it creaking open.

“It’s been abandoned for years,” Rodney said as they walked in. He pulled a flashlight out of his carryall, pointing the beam into the foyer. The few pieces of furniture left were covered in tattered fabric and Rodney saw some rats scurry away from the nearby stairwell.

“Ok, mission objective time,” John stated. “Where would you leave sensitive information?”

“In the form of candy?” Rodney asked, just as the door behind them slammed shut. “Oh shit.”

John spun around to check the door. “It’s stuck,” He announced. A noise off to his left caught John’s attention. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Rodney whimpered. “Sorry, I was busy watching the mist.” The mist, which was quickly filling the room they were in. It seeped out of every nook and cranny, pouring down the stairwell and up the hallway reaching back into the house. “John...”

“I see it,” John said of the mist that now filled the small spotlight of Rodney’s flashlight. “Ok, plan B.” John stepped forward until he flanked Rodney. “Keep a hand on the mirror,” He commanded, sitting the gaudy thing in front of them.

“What, we’re going to hope it scares the mist away?” Rodney muttered, kicking at a tendril of the stuff that was encroaching on his personal space. “And what about behind us?”

John was busy digging through Rodney’s carryall. “Ah hah!” He said, pulling out a small compact. “I’m not going to ask why you have a pocket mirror in your bag, Rodney.”

“What?” Rodney said, turning his head slightly. “Oh, that. It’s for sending messages in emergencies. I can’t believe I forgot it.”

“You take the front,” John ordered, letting go of the larger mirror. “I’ll take the rear.”

“And where, pray tell, are we going?” Rodney inquired. “Couldn’t you just shoot it?”

John edged around until his back was against Rodney’s. “I don’t think bullets work on noncorporeal objects,” He told Rodney. “Try the ground floor first. Maybe the kitchen.”

Rodney took a tentative step forward, grateful for the reassuring weight of John behind him. The mist seemed to avoid the mirror, curling back in on itself as he moved. It was hard to hold the flashlight and the mirror, however, and Rodney quickly found himself fumbling with both objects. “What are you doing?” John hissed, moving the tiny round mirror he held to deflect a bit of mist.

“Flashlight. Thirty-kilogram mirror. You do the math,” Rodney spat, swinging the mirror around to the side. As he did, a slick cloud of mist came in, sliding in between the two men.

John felt more than saw the mist close around him, its icy touch almost unbearable. He smashed the mirror down against his arm, at the coldest point. The mist dissipated, but by then Rodney was gone.

Rodney was freezing. The mist was everywhere and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the mirror in the right place to get more than a little of the stuff to move away. He’d lost John somewhere, probably when he’d gone after that big surge of mist aiming for his head.

The sound of feet stomping on rotting wood let John orient on Rodney’s position and he fled that way, running into Rodney just as he slammed his huge mirror into a solid wall of mist. John braced Rodney as the mirror shuddered and the mist pushed before being repelled.

“Let’s go,” Rodney barked as a small opening formed in the mist. John grasped Rodney’s arm and pushed him through it, swiping at some mist as they passed. This time, however, John made sure he didn’t lose Rodney again. He didn’t care if Rodney complained about bruising later; for now they weren’t getting split up.

Once in the hallway, Rodney barreled through the mist until they reached a closed door. He ran straight into it, bouncing back to hit John’s chest. “Ow,” He complained, rubbing his shoulder with the flashlight.

“Give me that,” John said, grabbing the flashlight. “I’ll direct the light; you get the door.” His back felt like ice, mist curling over his shoulder. He used his hand mirror, bundled together with the flashlight, to beat back the mist behind him.

Rodney got the door open and slid through it, dragging John with him. The mist tried to edge though, but John let go of Rodney long enough to shut the door firmly behind them.

“No mist in here,” Rodney murmured into the darkness. “It’s warmer, at least.”

John used the flashlight to look around. “You found the kitchen.”

Rodney followed the beam of light as it flickered this way and that. “Hey, go back to the counter,” He said, pointing. Lightning struck outside, temporarily illuminating the entire room. On the counter sat a wicker basket made to look like a pumpkin.

“Bingo,” John huffed, crossing over to the basket. “Trick or treat, hmm?”

Rodney lugged the wall mirror over to the counter. “If it’s toothbrushes, I’ll...

It wasn’t toothbrushes, but John sort of wished it was. “You were saying?” He muttered, staring down at the basket’s contents. At one point it had been a delightful selection of chocolates. Now, though, it was covered in creepy things.

“Are those maggots?” Rodney asked, horrified. “They left maggoty candy?”

“I guess so,” John replied, “That or they left it here so long