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 ago...”

“Yeah,” Rodney murmured. “I think there’s a sandwich bag in here somewhere,” He continued, rooting around in the duffel. He eventually found it, emptying it of its usual contents—q-tips, cotton balls and bandages. Rodney thrust the bag at John before looking pointedly at the basket.

“Why do I have to get the candy?” John whined.

“Because I had the heavy mirror,” Rodney retorted. “Could you just get some of it so we can go? I’m still trying to figure out how we’re actually supposed to get out of here.”

“There’s a back door,” John said, looking over at the wall. He studied the candy for a moment, not quite willing to just reach in. Finally he turned the zippered bag inside out and used it like a glove, scooping up a generous amount of the candy—and quite a few maggots—before flipping it again and zipping it closed. Then he shoved it into Rodney’s bag and took a big step back from the counter.

Rodney grimaced. “Did you have to put it in there?” He asked, disgusted.

“Yes,” John said, reaching for the mirror. “You take the light and this stupid compact; I’ll get the monstrosity.”

Rodney let him trade off their burdens before they went to the back door. “I don’t see any mist,” He reported as he looked out the window next to the door. “Just a lot of rain and wind and lightning.”

“Yeah, well, the mist is starting to come in through the dining room,” John told him. Rodney looked over to see a wall of mist coming towards their position.

The kitchen door wasn’t hard to open, at least not after John broke the lock. They bounded outside and into the thunderstorm, John pushing them to the right. It wasn’t as far around on that side, but the rainwater was pooled almost to Rodney’s ankles.

Running through water wasn’t easy without a burden and John found himself slipping and lurching with the mirror taking up both hands. Rodney, meanwhile, had given up on the flashlight and was making headway in the water, occasionally stumbling over submerged items but managing to stay upright.

When they got around to the front of the house, though, they found another problem waiting for them. “Uh oh,” Rodney said, stopping to rest on the top of a garden statue that was now mostly underwater.

John peered out over the lake that now separated them from his seaplane. It did cross his mind that they’d arrived in a somewhat different vessel, but he still wasn’t going to think about the shifting-images issue. After all, the seaplane could take off in water, but the cargo plane would’ve been a problem.

“How deep is it?” Rodney asked of the rippling water in front of them. “I can swim, but...”

John lowered the mirror into the water, happy to see that its wooden frame was large enough to float the heavy glass. “I’m thinking chest-high,” He told Rodney as he pushed the mirror in front of them. “Come on; I don’t see too much of a current.”

There wasn’t much of a current when they started out right next to the house, but by the time they cleared the porch, both Rodney and John were swimming. Each man kept a hand on the mirror as they slowly crawled to the plane, John looking back every few seconds to see if the mist was following them. It wasn’t, however, and he decided that even evil freezing mists hated getting soaked in thunderstorms.

When they got to the plane, John opened the door and hoisted the mirror inside before giving Rodney a boost. By the time he got himself in, Rodney had the mirror stored in the back and was pawing through the plane’s supplies, probably looking for food.

“Do you ever think of anything besides—

Rodney shoved a blanket in John’s face, shutting up whatever stupid commentary he’d been about to give. “You don’t have any more dry clothes, but at least we won’t freeze to death,” Rodney grumbled as he took up the other blanket. “Our other clothes haven’t had time to dry, have they?”

“Not in this weather,” John said as he tugged and yanked at his soggy clothing. Funny, he would’ve sworn he put on spare fatigues. What he was taking off, however, looked like civvies.

“Nice plane,” Rodney observed once he was out of his clothes and wrapped snugly in the warm and dry blanket. “Much roomier than your carriage.”

“The jet, you mean,” John corrected before realizing that Rodney had seen the plane as a plane. “Wait, you see a plane?”

“Better than the Studebaker, too, although lacking its antique charm,” Rodney continued. “Have you ever flown a seaplane?”

“Yes,” John replied. “You can see the plane?”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yes, John, I can see the plane.”

“I wonder...” John pulled the small mirror out of the first aid kit where Rodney had stored it. “Come here.”

Rodney scooted over to where John was crouched. “What, you want to see if we’re seeing the same thing?”

“Yep,” John confirmed. He held onto the mirror, tilting it so both he and Rodney could see. “Is that what you see?”

Rodney studied the reflection. “Nearly; I think I’m seeing an older plane, and the blankets are a lot softer to me.”

John glanced at the plain wool blanket covering him. “That’s not fair,” He bitched.

Rodney smirked. “If it’s any consolation, your version of our clothes is better.”

“Really?” John asked, handing the mirror to Rodney. “Show me.”

Rodney tilted the mirror this way and that until John could see the lumpy pile of tacky urban camouflage clothing Rodney had been wearing. “And you say I’ve got a piss-poor imagination,” John snarked. “You couldn’t have thought up worse camo if you tried.”

“Obviously you’ve never seen the rainbow-colored stuff they sell teenagers,” Rodney informed him. “You know, that storm isn’t letting up.”

John crawled up to the cockpit and looked around. “It’s getting worse. Lightning everywhere.”

“That would explain the constant thunder,” Rodney said dryly. “It was either the storm or a freight train about to run over us.”

“No tracks,” John said absently. “We can’t fly until it lets up; this thing can’t take a lightning strike.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” Rodney replied. “But we’ve still got three houses to go.”

“Yeah, I know,” John agreed. He found their old clothes in the cockpit and reached for them. While they were waiting, maybe they could wring them out some and get at least a few items somewhat dry. “It’s not anywhere near morning, though, so we’ve got some time.”

Rodney watched as John wrung water out of their clothes before rolling them in the damp blankets from their previous attempt to dry out. The clothing got draped over every surface and the blankets were spread out on the small floor, leaving Rodney only a small spot behind the cockpit to sit. It was cramped, humid and chilly, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it was outside.

One of the shirts was streaked with smears of white, black and red—Rodney’s face paint. He hadn’t noticed it before, and certainly not when it had been on his face. It was probably because it had only been John who could see it, but that didn’t explain why Rodney could see it now.

Rodney didn’t want to see the physical evidence that proved John had such a serious problem with him that he had to imagine Rodney as a clown just to stand to be near him. Rodney should’ve felt superior; after all, he didn’t deny anything to himself. He even admitted to John that he loved acrobats, that he’d seen John as something beautiful, strong and graceful.

John hated Rodney so much, found him so threatening, that he’d turned Rodney into a buffoon. It stung, more than Rodney wanted it to. Sure, he was intimidating; genius was by its very nature a forceful thing. But did John really feel that uncomfortable around him? Rodney knew he wasn’t popular, but he’d never imagined that John, of all people, would find him that distasteful or pointless. Surely John didn’t think Rodney was here only for people’s amusement? It made no sense at all. None.

Denial was what Rodney had told John it was. The problem Rodney had now was that he couldn’t see what John was denying. That Rodney was dangerous? John said seeing him as a clown made him safe, but safe compared to what? Rodney had never been a threat to John. It was John who was handsome, who drew peoples’ eyes. He was the one who charmed, who got liked. Rodney was a brain, a thinker. They split their work evenly, with Rodney planning a lot and doing what he had to, while John made Rodney’s plans work and occasionally made them better.

Or more than occasionally, just as Rodney pitched in with the manual labor more than he ever admitted. Still, he wasn’t any threat to John’s work, to his position with Weir. Rodney could never usurp that position and he had no desire to do so.

Rodney used to think John had at least a little respect for him, at the bare minimum an understanding of Rodney’s usefulness. Maybe he’d been wrong.

“What?”

“Huh?” Rodney mumbled, startled by John’s voice. “What what?”

John peered at Rodney’s face, shadowed by the plane’s interior. “You’re thinking awfully hard.”

“I think all the time,” Rodney bit out, “It’s a common habit amongst intelligent people.”

“Uh huh,” John said, “But you’re also frowning. Hard, like you’re mad.”

“I’m cold, damp and wrapped in a blanket, trapped in a dank seaplane in the middle of a thunderstorm on some harebrained mission with a baggie of maggot-filled candy in my belongings; there’s a freezing, sentient mist outside that wants to kill me—not to mention the homicidal local population; and my partner hates me so much he has to pretend I’m a clown so he can stand to work with me. I have no idea why I could possibly be anything less than euphoric!” Rodney said, his voice climbing into a shout the longer he ranted.

John blinked at the vehemence in Rodney’s voice. “I don’t hate you,” He murmured, taken aback. “I never said I hated you.”

“Please,” Rodney spat. “You felt so threatened by me, so bothered by my existence, that you had to turn me into a walking sideshow freak.”

John shook his head. “That doesn’t mean I hate you, Rodney. It’s just like I said, I had to make you into something safe. Something harmless.”

Rodney stared. “What in the hell could I possibly do to you, John? You could beat me senseless with one arm tied behind your back and both your kneecaps broken.”

“You did pretty well earlier,” John retorted, absently rubbing one of the bruises Rodney had left on his torso.

“Bullshit,” Rodney grunted, not the least bit mollified. “You were holding back, but that’s not the point. You turned me into a clown! I want to know what I did to make you hate me so much.”

“I said,” John said slowly, “I don’t hate you.”

“So you said,” Rodney hissed. “Explain it, then. We’ve got time.” And they did; the lightning outside wasn’t lessening at all.

John stared out at the storm, weighing how he should handle this situation. Unlike last time, he couldn’t just fly them to the next house. They really were stuck, at least for a little while. When he’d confessed his denial issue to Rodney, John thought the man would understand. After all, denial was about refusing to admit something you thought wasn’t good. That’s what John thought, although he didn’t think Rodney was bad, or that liking Rodney a little too much was bad. It was, however, dangerous. The clown was nonthreatening; he distracted John with silly tricks and illusions. When Rodney was pulling mice out of his hair, John didn’t have to see the man, just the entertainer.

Clown-Rodney was safe.

“Rodney, denial isn’t about hatred,” John began. “I said the clown part made you safe.”

“I heard you the first time,” Rodney muttered. “Yes, yes, clown makeup makes me safe. Why am I dangerous without it?”

John bounced his head against the wall behind him and wished some of that mist would show up to distract them from the conversation. It wasn’t going to happen and Rodney was getting impatient; John could hear his fingers tapping the floor in impatient little thumps.

“I knew you couldn’t lie your way out of this one,” Rodney said resignedly. It was too much to ask for John to pretend he didn’t hate his partner. If they made it out of this night alive, he would petition for reassignment. Perhaps that new guy, Lorne, needed a genius partner for his work.

John’s eyes shot open when Rodney spoke. He wasn’t lying, at least not directly. If anything, John was trying to find a way to tell the truth without actually saying anything. “Damnit,” He cursed, crawling across the floor of the plane. Some days Rodney was way too much trouble. Rodney was always too much trouble, always annoying and perversely happy when he was bothering John. Rodney put him in spandex and glitter, for crying out loud! Tight, revealing clothing that left nothing to the imagination. For hours, Rodney had gotten to ogle John. Oh... John tried to recall exactly what Rodney had said about acrobats, earlier in their protracted, interrupted argument.

Rodney heard John move and glanced over to find the man approaching. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get into another fight when we’re confined to a plane in the middle of a—

The heavy blankets were enough padding that John couldn’t really feel Rodney’s body, but kissing him was enough for the moment. The sound of Rodney talking was muted, nothing more than incomprehensible syllables echoing between them. Since he was trying to talk, Rodney’s mouth was open and John had no difficulty taking control, sliding his tongue along Rodney’s until those aborted words degenerated into mindless whimpers.

Pain. Rodney had been expecting pain when he saw John looming over him. He hadn’t tried to escape; there wasn’t anywhere for him to go anyway. So Rodney had simply braced himself for whatever John was going to dole out.

He hadn’t expected the kiss. When Rodney tried to express his surprise, John simply deepened it, which made it very hard for Rodney to think very hard about anything but letting John push him into the floor of the plane and kiss him senseless.

Rodney did manage to come to the realization that he’d been all wrong about John’s denial. For once, being wrong wasn’t such a bad thing. If it got him John, who kissed him like Rodney was the only person he wanted and not just the only person available, Rodney wasn’t going to get too upset about being wrong.

John worked one hand around Rodney’s shoulder, searching for and finding the edge of the soft blanket covering the man’s body. As soon as John’s hands found warm, smooth skin, Rodney shuddered and arched into the touch.

Skin was a good thing, so Rodney returned the favor, tugging and shoving until John was draped naked on top of him. Their mutual squirming was both delightful and bothersome; every movement sent tendrils of sensation straight to Rodney’s cock, but their makeshift covering wasn’t doing a very good job. Cold air kept distracting Rodney from kissing John so he broke away to reach for one of the blankets.

“Hrm?” John grumbled, twisting to capture Rodney’s mouth again. He didn’t think kissing was a game, but maybe it was; Rodney kept moving away. He wasn’t actually trying to escape, however, so John went with it.

“Cold,” Rodney mumbled, finally finding the blanket’s corners. He pulled it up over John’s head, cocooning them in warm darkness.

John buried his face in Rodney’s neck, shifting his lower body until he was cradled between Rodney’s thighs. “Warm,” He countered, mouth brushing Rodney’s throat. Soft, salty skin that tasted of rain and something slightly bitter—probably face paint or slime, but John wasn’t going to think too hard about that.

“So, denial,” Rodney hummed, bringing his arms around John’s torso.

“Oh, don’t start,” John warned. “I told you I don’t hate you.”

Rodney’s smirk would’ve infuriated John, but it was too dark to see. “I gathered as much,” He replied lightly. John was really warm, his chest firm and heavy as he held Rodney down. They were both hard, erections lined up rather nicely.

John leaned up to kiss Rodney again, hoping to forestall any potential discussion. The kissing was pretty damned good in and of itself, so it wasn’t any hardship on John’s part to continue. Rodney wasn’t actually complaining about it, or trying to get away, so John decided Rodney liked it, liked being naked with him, and was generally all for whatever they ended up doing.

The wet, erotic feel of John’s lips teasing his own drew Rodney’s attention away from thoughts of why they were lying together naked in the middle of a raging storm. It was far too difficult to focus on anything but the way John felt, the soft thrum of a heartbeat running counterpoint to his own. Rodney tightened his arms around John’s back, making sure John didn’t go anywhere. He didn’t seem to want to move, but there wasn’t any use in tempting fate or John’s infuriating habit of shifting gears.

John thrust his hips gently, easily as he deepened the kiss, teasing Rodney with his tongue. They only sound Rodney made was a broken groan, his body pushing up against John to keep the rhythm going. What had started as an awkward, muted flicker of irritated desire quickly grew and John found himself holding Rodney down, shoving a hand between them to wrap around their cocks.

Rodney whimpered when John’s fingers gripped him, shoving greedily to increase the pressure. John was in control, though; the rhythm he set with tongue, hand and hips wasn’t one Rodney could keep up with or even fight against. It started slow and easy, just a series of light touches and wet kisses. Now, though, Rodney’s mind was completely hijacked as John threw him headlong into a seething frenzy of sensation.

Each kiss was rougher and deeper than the one before it, but John couldn’t dredge up the willpower to slow down. Rodney was hot beneath him, slick with sweat and writhing with pleasure. He was moaning into John’s mouth, cock stroking John’s as they moved together, John’s fingers driving them on. It wasn’t going to last, not when John could smell Rodney’s arousal and see the way his eyes squeezed closed before flashing open to catch John’s gaze.

Holding out had been a possibility right up until Rodney caught John watching him. Dark, green-brown eyes pinned him down with a heavy-lidded stare, promising the kind of things Rodney didn’t allow himself to want. All the sensations they were creating spun together, tightening in Rodney’s spine before suddenly bursting outward. It clawed out of his throat, spilling into John’s mouth while Rodney’s body jerked and poured release between them.

Watching Rodney come was almost as erotic as feeling it, the way his muscles tightened and his voice moaned deep and low. John thrust a couple of times, shaking as he felt the slickness of Rodney’s semen slide along his hand. The idea of being covered in Rodney was enough to push John over and leave him trembling and gasping for air.

Rodney lay quiet beneath John, listening as the man’s breathing slowed. The storm, too, was tapering off; he could count actual minutes between the flashes of lightning that illuminated the plane’s interior. They could probably get moving now, on to the next house and closer to the evening’s end.

“Mmm,” John hummed, burrowing deeper into Rodney’s arms. “Storm’s letting up,” He said, voice muffled by Rodney’s neck.

“We should go then,” Rodney replied softly, brushing a hand down John’s spine. “The night isn’t getting any younger.”

John sighed and levered himself up. They were sticky, but with all the rain and wet fabric around getting clean wouldn’t be difficult. He reached for one of his shirts, which was a lot dryer than he’d expected it to be, and wiped at the mess they’d created.

“Hand me my clothes?” Rodney asked as he shifted out of their blanket nest. John did so and Rodney fumbled into his gear, wishing they had another hour for the material to finish drying. It wasn’t bad, just damp enough to be clammy.

John finished dressing and crawled into the pilot’s seat. The sky wasn’t clear, but the lightning had moved away and he thought it was safe enough to make the short hop they had to make next. “Strap in,” He murmured when Rodney joined him in the front. “It could be bumpy.”

“Unlike the rest of the evening, which has been completely turbulence-free,” Rodney snarked as he buckled himself in. He didn’t want to talk to John about what they’d been doing, but that didn’t mean Rodney wasn’t thinking about it. They’d had pretty good sex—surprisingly good first-time sex, no less. Was it going to happen again? That was what Rodney was thinking about.

John glanced over at Rodney’s tense, pensive face. Before he could talk himself out of it, John leaned over. It wasn’t a long kiss, or a deep one—just a simple kiss. Still, both men’s eyes fell shut for the brief contact, each sighing as it ended.

Takeoff was a novelty for Rodney, who hadn’t been in a seaplane before. “What if there isn’t any water at the next stop?” He asked John, who laughed in response.

“This puppy will land on solid ground too,” He told Rodney with a grin. “So we’re fine. Stop worrying.”

“You fly, I worry,” Rodney groused. “And what is that?” He continued, pointing to their destination. “A resort?”

John brought the plane around once, circling before he landed. “I guess so,” He said, checking out the scattered cottages and bungalows that dotted the shore. They were at a small lake, one that was most assuredly smaller when it wasn’t raining so heavily. He found a floating dock and pulled up to it, hoping nobody cared if it was a private dock and he was trespassing.

Rodney waited impatiently while John secured the plane and checked out the area for whatever threats he thought might exist. There wasn’t any of the mist, not that Rodney could see; in fact the only signs of life were the bright porch lights that lit up each of the residences along the beach.

“So do we go to one of them, or hit them all?” John asked Rodney, who was walking very cautiously along the gently swaying dock.

“All of them,” Rodney told John. “Even if what we’re looking for is at one place, we won’t know which one.”

“True,” John conceded. “Do you still have the hand mirror?”

Rodney held up the compact. “Yes, and you can’t trade. I had that monstrosity last time.”

John shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s your compact. Although I gotta ask why you have a ladies’ mirrored compact.”

“It’s a folding mirror,” Rodney stated sharply. “I don’t recall any gender-specific labeling.”

“Rodney,” John teased lightly, “It’s lavender.”

“And your boxers are periwinkle,” Rodney retorted. “Are they ladies’ boxers?”

“You tell me,” John muttered, leering at Rodney. “You’ve seen ‘em.”

Rodney rolled his eyes and stepped onto solid ground, deeply grateful to be off the dock. “I was referring to the garment, not its contents, John. Sexual transvestitism as well as some other sexual fetishes involve the wearing of feminine garments by non-transsexual males.”

John’s laugh echoed through the small community. “I’m not a transsexual, Rodney.”

“You’ve never expressed any gender dysphoria,” Rodney admitted, turning away to hide his smirk, “But that wasn’t what I meant. You could just be kinky.”

John lunged forward as best as he could with the heavy mirror in one hand, catching Rodney and spinning him around. “Kinky? Maybe,” John murmured, brushing his lips along Rodney’s cheek to pause over his ear, “But not that kind of kinky.”

“Oh good,” Rodney breathed, leaning into John’s hand. “Because cross-dressing does nothing for me.”

“Come on,” John said, pushing Rodney down the sidewalk. He shook his head at his partner, who simply smirked. Sometimes it was best to just let Rodney have the last word. Maybe if he did that more often, he’d get laid with greater frequency.

A man could hope.

The first cottage was a tiny thing, barely bigger than a single-car garage. John marched up to the door and knocked loudly, Rodney right beside him.

“Mom! Trick-or-treaters!” They heard from behind the door. A plain young woman answered the door, smiling tightly as her young son ran out of the main room.

“Happy Halloween,” She said, thrusting a bowl at them. “Don’t take too much; us locals haven’t gone out yet.”

Rodney nodded and reached into the bowl, withdrawing a couple of pieces of candy corn. He stuck the candy in his carryall, along with the single piece John procured.

“Thanks,” John said as the door slammed in their faces. “If they’re all like this, we’ll be done in no time.”

“True,” Rodney agreed, “But we won’t actually get very much. Three pieces of candy corn? And isn’t it a little unsanitary to have it like that? Shouldn’t candy corn be packaged in hermetically sealed plastic bags?”

“Rodney,” John began as they walked to the next house, “It’s for Weir. Why would we care if it’s not hygienic? I mean, that last place’s candy had—

“Yes, yes, I know,” Rodney interrupted, not wanting to think about the maggots.

A bit of mist appeared as they turned to walk up to the next house, but John swung his gilded mirror at it, causing the mist to scatter. “Keep an eye out,” He warned Rodney, who indeed had his small hand mirror at the ready.

“Go knock, would you?” Rodney ordered, tilting his head at the door. “I counted six cottages here; if that mist shows up in force we’re screwed.”

“Again?” John teased before knocking. Rodney shot a half-hearted glare at John while they waited.

“Aren’t you two a bit old to be trick-or-treating?” The man at the door asked, looking up at Rodney and John.

“We’re remedial students,” John explained, his best charm-smile firmly in place. “Teacher said if I don’t get in any fights this year, I might make it to tenth grade.”

“Smart ass,” The man grunted. Still, he held out a bowl, shaking it slightly so the candy rattled. “Don’t take much; it’s supposed to be for kids, not hoodlums.”

Rodney bit his tongue and took a single piece of candy corn, the same as John did. The man shut his door firmly, flipping off his porch light for good measure.

“What’s with the candy corn here?” Rodney hissed as he tucked their most recent acquisition away. “Surely they could afford more candy than that!”

“Not for us delinquents,” John replied, smirking.

“Notice that I didn’t agree with you back there,” Rodney said. “I don’t think I could pass myself off as an idiot, not if I opened my mouth.”

“No, you’re far too truculent,” John told him, “Whereas I have no difficulty playing the fool.”

Rodney chose not to answer. Besides, they were at the third cottage. “Hey, geese,” Rodney said, pointing at a display of concrete yard animals. “What’s on their heads?”

John crouched down to look. “Um, berets?” He replied uncertainly. “And they’ve got little mustaches drawn on them. Goatees too—oh, and flip-flops on their feet.”

Rodney stared down at the geese. “I have nothing to say,” He admitted with a rueful grin. “Mark this night, John. I’m speechless.”

“Relatively speechless,” John said as he stood. “Do we have to knock here?”

“I’ll do it,” Rodney said, taking one last glance at the geese before moving forward. The cottage’s door was painted a very unattractive orange and it pained Rodney to even touch it.

“Trick-or-treat,” He murmured when the door opened. A very tall, very thin young man, his litheness spoiled only by a protruding pot belly and a beaklike nose, appeared.

“Stupid American holiday,” The man grunted, puffing on a cigarette in a long, black holder. John worked hard not to smirk at the black-and white striped shirt or the black short-pants. The beret, also black, was the perfect touch and John wondered if the man’s mustache and goatee were natural or drawn on. He suspected it was the latter. A quick glance down confirmed the presence of flip-flops.

“Yes, yes, it’s incredibly, mind-blowingly, disgustingly horrible, this annual display of capitalistic excess and petty bourgeois posturing,” Rodney spat. “Can we have some candy?”

“But of course,” The guy replied, reaching into the house to get a small handful of candy corn. He shoved it into Rodney’s waiting hand. “For the other one, too. Now, get out of here. I saw you lusting after my geese. Steal one and I’ll shoot you in the ass.”

John quirked an eyebrow at Rodney before checking out the candy corn. “I didn’t know it came in that color,” He said of the pink-and-blue striped corn.

“It’s not for us, so who cares?” Rodney said in an echo of John’s earlier statement. “Next house, and watch out for the geese.”

“No problem,” John replied, walking quickly to the main sidewalk. “Somehow I don’t think that guy’s getup was a Halloween costume.”

“I know,” Rodney grunted. “Weirdo.”

The fourth house was dark and no one answered when John tried the door. “No geese this time,” He told Rodney as he tried the door handle. It turned easily and John pushed the door inwards.

“No people either,” Rodney said as he peered inside. The interior was murky and smelled like stale beer.

John looked around the small cabin briefly before spotting its inhabitant. “Well, one,” He corrected, pointing, “But I think he’s out for the count.”

Rodney followed John inside to check on the unconscious man. An impressively large number of beer bottles lay scattered about. “Is he alive?” Rodney asked. “And if he’s dead...”

“He’s alive,” John said, reaching over to pull the man onto his side. “If he throws up, at least he won’t drown in it.”

“Such a humanitarian,” Rodney said as he searched for Halloween candy. “Ah hah!”

John watched as Rodney tucked an entire bag of candy corn in his carryall. “Shouldn’t we leave some?”

“Why?” Rodney asked as they walked back outside, shutting the door behind them. “He’s dead drunk, John. How’s he going to pass out candy?”

John thought for a moment. “Point,” He conceded. “Two to go.”

The fifth house was also dark, but it really was unoccupied. On the small front porch stood a table containing a note and a basket of candy corn.

“Take one piece of candy only. Remember, we’re watching you,” Rodney read. “One between us or one each?”

“One each,” John replied. “I think that’s the deal anyway.” He took a single piece of candy, as did Rodney. Both were quickly stashed and they headed for the next house. As they left the yard, John thought he heard rustling in the nearby shrubs. When he looked, though, he found nothing but darkness.

“Last place,” Rodney declared happily. It was a brightly lit cottage and the nearer they got, the easier it was to tell that a raucous party was going on.

“Trick-or-treaters!” A lady yelled from her spot on the porch. “Dude, grab some candy!”

John and Rodney paused by the cottage’s mail box. “At least we know where everybody is,” John murmured.

“Trick-or-treat!” A couple of partiers screamed, hands flailing. Rodney ducked instinctively as something flew at his head.

John ducked as well, leaning the mirror over both himself and Rodney. “What are they throwing?” He whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of small objects pelting the mirror’s glass front.

Rodney’s fingers scrabbled on the ground. He gathered up a handful of small objects, turning on his flashlight to check them out. “Gravel and candy corn,” He told John. “I think I’ve got enough here for both of us.”

John nodded and stood, only to get hit with a handful of small rocks and candy. “Let’s go,” He ordered, already jogging down the sidewalk. Rodney followed, wincing as he got hit by flying objects. The partiers didn’t stop throwing things until they were almost out of sight.

The plane was where they left it and both men climbed in quickly. “As charming as this place is,” Rodney huffed, slightly out of breath, “I think we should get going.”

John shook a few pieces of gravel out of his hair. “I’m not going to argue.”

In the distance, another storm front towered, dark and forbidding. Rodney watched it as they flew, hoping they could move quickly enough to make it back to Weir’s estate before it hit. “That one looks worse than the last,” Rodney murmured, eyes still on the front. “More lightning, if such a thing is possible.”

John checked out the storm. “We’ve got an hour, maybe two, before it hits. But yeah, that one looks brutal.”

Rodney sighed. “It was a dark and stormy Halloween night. How cliché can you get?”

“No witches yet,” John replied evenly. “Zombies, yes. Witches, no.”

“What about that first lady?” Rodney asked. “She fit into the witch-sorceress-temptress constellation.”

John’s answering grunt was a little gratifying. Rodney couldn’t help but prod a little; after all, he had been right.

Their next destination was, for once, not the least bit creepy. John landed the plane on a small runway, coasting up to an immaculate cobblestone drive. The house itself was brightly lit, well-kempt and attractively decorated for the season.

“Greek revival,” Rodney commented as they walked up the driveway. “And the turkeys-wearing-pilgrim-hats window décor is more tasteful than I would’ve expected.”

John shifted the mirror from his left hand to his right. “I thought we were switching off with the mirror.”

Rodney shook his head. “Maybe next time; you seem to have a pretty good grip on it now.”

When they reached the door, they heard music and laughter echoing from within the house. “Party?” John whispered, frowning. Parties weren’t particularly welcoming on this mission; he was sure he still had gravel and candy corn stuck in his damp clothing from the last one.

Rodney shrugged and pressed the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately, swinging silently on well-oiled hinges. A tall, older man appeared, smiling pleasantly as he looked out at them.

“Happy Halloween,” John said, smiling back at the man.

“Trick-or-treat,” Rodney added, trying to downplay his usual irritability.

“Happy Halloween to you as well,” The man replied, still smiling. “You two are brave souls; the weather has kept most young ones away.”

John’s smile turned into a sheepish grin. “Candy is a great motivator,” He admitted, edging the mirror behind him. This guy wasn’t so bad; he didn’t have fangs or ooze dripping and he hadn’t yet tried to kill them.

The man nodded. “Indeed it is. I often find myself braving the elements for a bar of Whole Nut,” He told Rodney and John. “Do come in; I put my candy away when the weather turned foul. It will take me just a moment to find it again.”

Rodney and John shared a glance before stepping into the foyer. Going inside wasn’t something they really wanted to do, but if it got them candy with a minimum of hassle, they’d play along. Besides, not every place they’d visited had turned out to be a house of horrors.

Once inside, the man disappeared into the back of the house. Rodney looked around the main room, quickly seeing the source of the party sounds they’d been hearing. A huge flat-screen television was showing The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

“How bad can he be?” John asked as he watched the movie. “It’s Rocky Horror.”

Rodney was about to reply when the power went out. “You were saying?” He hissed at the spot he thought John was occupying.

A series of muffled thumps raced around the room and John turned around carefully, feeling for the door. “Automatic locks. Probably on the windows too,” He whispered to Rodney.

“Great,” Rodney grumbled. He fumbled for his flashlight, flicking it on. The resulting beam was dull. “And this thing’s batteries are almost dead.”

John extracted the flashlight he’d taken from the plane. “We’ve still got this one,” He reminded Rodney. They traded flashlights so Rodney could lead the way. “Last time we got out through the kitchen.”

“Right,” Rodney concurred. “Of course, the way-too-pleasant man went that way.”

John was already hefting the mirror. “Unless you’ve got a better idea, just get moving.”

They made their way slowly down the hall, Rodney keeping an eye out for both their apparently not-so-genial host and the mist that made itself known at the worst possible times. It was entirely possible that the sudden loss of power was due to the bad weather, but coupled with the house’s automatically locking doors and windows, Rodney was pretty sure the place’s owner wasn’t friendly.

A brief creaking noise brought John up short. “Did you hear that?”

Rodney paused. “Hear what?”

Silence answered Rodney. He turned around, looking for John, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Oh shit,” Rodney cursed. He tightened his grip on the flashlight and his compact mirror. “John?” He called out, flashing the light over dark walls and shut doors. He hadn’t heard one open or shut, but that didn’t mean anything.

He continued down the hallway, looking for wherever John had gone. “John, where the hell are you?” He said, stopping in front of the next door. Rodney tried the knob, pushing the door open when he found it unlocked.

A hand darted out, taking hold of his wrist. Before he could utter more than a startled yelp, Rodney was dragged inside and down onto the floor.

John landed on his back with a sick crunch, his fall broken by the mirror. It wasn’t much of a cushion, however, and he could feel shards of glass trying to cut into his back. He sat up, reaching for the mostly-dead flashlight he’d taken from Rodney. It still had a little life left in it and he used it too look around.

He was in a cellar. Dirt walls stretched around him, going much farther than his weak light could illuminate. Support beams and columns dotted the room, which was otherwise bare.

Except for the guy who stepped out of the shadows, swinging something long and heavy at John’s head. He ducked and rolled, evading the blow. The flashlight, however, wasn’t so lucky; it went flying in a pale halo before smacking a wall and going dark.

“I’m disappointed,” A voice said in an almost-conversational tone. “Considering the gravity of her situation, I would have thought Weir would have sent a more professional team.”

John crouched behind a support column, withdrawing his sidearm. He could hear muffled footsteps but they didn’t echo, not on the dirt floor. It was dark and the air was moist, motionless and thick. The man wanted him to answer, to argue, but John wasn’t taking the bait. Any sound would reveal his position.

“Not that any of her men could be expected to compete against me,” The man continued, this time from a different part of the cellar. “But your incompetence is surprising.”

John crept away from the column, back to the wall. He could follow it around and find the room’s exit, even if it wasn’t the way he’d come in. There had to have been a trapdoor on the first floor; he knew he’d fallen down into the room from directly above.

He’d just found the first corner when the man struck, his weapon—a shovel, John suspected. It slammed against John’s torso, leaving him breathless and gasping as he fell to the floor. Another blow landed on his back, followed by one to his knees when he tried to recover. A fourth strike hit his head and John saw stars, nausea pushing at his throat. The man had to have night-vision goggles or something, to be able to see him so well.

Cold metal slapped around John’s wrists and he found himself hauled upright, arms protesting as he was left balanced on the tips of his boots. He tried to swing around, only to have his ankles similarly bound and brought off the floor.

“Oh, now isn’t this a pretty sight,” The man crowed once he had John trussed up to a support beam. John twisted his wrists until his fingers found chain and grasped it, taking some of his weight. Maybe if he could get up on top of the support beam, the man wouldn’t be able to reach him. As it was, he was at least ten feet off the floor, probably hoisted up by pulleys.

Another series of shuffling sounds had John listening intently. He had to get out of this predicament before the man did whatever he had planned next; he had to find Rodney, who wasn’t trained to handle this kind of thing. Of course Rodney did pretty well anyway, but that wasn’t the point.

The sickening crack of wood against his ribs brought John back to his current situation. “I wonder,” The man hissed, landing blows to John’s back and thighs, “What will spill out when I split you open.”

Rodney, meanwhile, found himself in what smelled like a linen closet. He’d hit the floor hard enough to leave him dizzy, long enough for someone to tie him up. He writhed around until he could bring his arms around his legs and to his front, grateful that whomever had tied him up had used strips of cloth. They hadn’t checked him for weaponry, so Rodney’s geek tool was still tucked into one pocket. It took another couple of minutes to extract it, but soon enough Rodney was loose.

The closet was inky dark, however, its small space redolent with the smell of mothballs and fabric. He felt around the floor, bumping into his carryall, mirror and flashlight. Their attacker was either thoughtless or arrogant; he hadn’t effectively disarmed Rodney. If he knew who Rodney and John were, though, he probably figured Rodney was the weak one. Maybe he was, but that didn’t mean he was helpless.

Rodney exited the linen closet, brandishing his mirror in one hand like a shield. He knew he should just stick with the handgun John insisted he keep in his carryall, but the mirror was more effective against mist.

A sharp cry echoed through the hallway and Rodney stopped, listening. It sounded a lot like John; more specifically it sounded like John in a lot of pain. He hurried along, not pausing again until he found the kitchen.

An ornate glass bowl set on one counter, filled to the brim with Snickers bars. He dumped most of them into his carryall and checked out the kitchen for anything useful. A block of kitchen knives caught his eye and he gathered them up, stuffing the set into the front pocket of his bag. One could never have too many weapons, Rodney knew all too well. Knives were usually John’s thing but in this case Rodney wasn’t going to linger on such inanities.

John tensed in anticipation for the next strike, but it didn’t come. “Don’t go anywhere,” The man grunted, his stick falling to the floor with a thump. “I’ve got to go deal with your little friend. Seems he’s more resourceful than I thought.”

The footsteps went straight back from John’s feet and he counted them as the man left. A set of stairs on the far wall, he surmised, waiting until the door shut behind his captor before trying to regain his freedom. Rodney was loose, which was good, but the guy was after him, which was bad.

John tugged on his restraints, feeling the pulley system groan under the strain. It was obviously a homemade affair and not designed to hold hostage a squirming person. He kicked with his feet, finally finding something to hit when he encountered a pulley.

Rodney heard the creak of a door and quickly hid in an alcove. He flipped off the flashlight and listened as someone approached.

“I know you’re here,[“] A voice murmured, “You might as well come out. I promise to kill you quickly.”

Rodney rolled his eyes and stayed put. That wasn’t going to work, not on him.

“Well, hello there,” The man snarled, his voice right at Rodney’s ear. Rodney swung out with one hand, cracking the guy across the nose with his mirror. He got a fist to his midsection for his troubles and fell to the floor, swiping at his attacker’s knees as he tried to escape.

The man fell heavily across Rodney’s chest, landing on his left arm with a sickening crash. Rodney felt the bone snap and wanted to scream; instead he shoved the guy away and reached into his carryall for something more effective than a hand mirror.

Something flew past Rodney’s head, landing loudly on the floor about an inch from his ear. He lashed out with a butcher knife, missing on the first try but hitting soft flesh on the return stroke.

“Bastard!” The man cursed, warm liquid hitting Rodney’s face. Rodney made it to his feet and flipped the flashlight back on, immediately locating the now-bleeding enemy. He’d cut the man across his throat, blood bubbling and spurting. Even with the serious wound the man was on the attack, one hand holding his neck and the other wielding a wickedly sharp garden implement.

Rodney backed down the hall briefly before belatedly recalling his much-hated handgun. He knew John was going to bitch at him for not carrying it all along; he could’ve shot the guy half a dozen times by now.

Even considering the lecture he was going to get later, Rodney sort of liked the look of shock and defeat on the man’s face when he withdrew his semiautomatic. The shot was loud, making Rodney’s ears ring, but it did its job. At close range, Rodney’s poor aim wasn’t a problem; a small hole bloomed on the man’s forehead and he toppled backwards into the dark.

Rodney checked to make sure he really was dead, which he was if the amount of brain matter on the floor was any indication, and then tucked his weapon away and went to search for John.

It wasn’t until Rodney tried to open a door that he remembered his arm. It only took a moment to empty his stomach of it’s paltry contents and dry heaving didn’t make Rodney feel any better, but it wasn’t as though he had any say in the matter. Pain really wasn’t Rodney’s cup of tea.

“John?” He called out again, hoping that the now-dead man was the only person in the house trying to kill them.

John heard Rodney call out, the first time he’d heard his partner’s voice in what felt like hours. “In the cellar!” He shouted, working harder to get himself free.

Rodney heard John’s voice, faint but still comprehensible. The cellar should’ve had some kind of access in the kitchen, so Rodney returned there. The first door he tried was the pantry, but the second contained a steep stairwell and, of course, no lights.

It did, however, contain a circuit breaker right next to the door. Rodney opened it and flipped the breakers, flooding the house with light.

“Rodney? That better be you,” John shouted as he was blinded by a flash of fluorescent lighting.

“Be right down,” Rodney grumbled, taking the stairs very carefully. He couldn’t hold on very well, even now that his right hand was empty of its flashlight. His left arm ached madly, pain shooting through him with each step.

“Where are you?” Rodney called out when he reached the cellar floor. All he saw was a wine rack, some garden tools, and a couple of cardboard boxes.

“On a support beam,” John grunted, still struggling. “Across from the stairs.”

Rodney looked up and out, finally finding John amongst the cellar supports. Indeed the man was strung up, trussed and bound with chains. He hurried over, taking in the crude pulley system. “Do I want to know how you got up there?” Rodney asked as he evaluated the situation. “And stop moving; I think I can get you down.”

“Then get me down,” John demanded as he stopped moving. “Without cracking my head open, if possible. That guy’s going to come back, you know.”

“From the dead?” Rodney asked harshly, reaching for the chains binding John’s feet. “I’m bringing your feet down first, okay?”

“Fine,” John said, relieved to feel his feet start to lower. “And what do you mean, ‘from the dead’?”

Once John was balanced on his toes, Rodney reached for the other chains. They weren’t easy to work one-handed, but he managed. “I mean, the asshole who did this to us is dead. Very dead.”

John fell to the floor as soon as his hands were free of the chains. Every part of his body ached, head to toe, and he still had manacles on his wrists and ankles. “You killed him?” John asked, eyeing Rodney with alarm when he saw all the blood.

Rodney looked down at his shirt. “Yes, and not neatly,” He admitted. “I think he broke my arm.”

John winced. “He beat me pretty well, but I don’t think anything’s actually broken. Did you find the...”

“Yes,” Rodney replied, gesturing at his carryall with his good hand. “Can you stand?”

“Maybe,” John said uncertainly. “It’d be easier without these cuffs.”

Rodney knelt on the floor to study them. “We might be able to break the locks; they don’t look all that strong.”

“With what?” John inquired. “All we’ve got is candy and a piñata stick.” The stick he was sitting on at the moment, the stick that was digging into his ass. John thought maybe he’d take the stick up with them and beat the dead guy with it. Just a little, for payback.

Rodney dug through his carryall to find something that might break the lock. “This should do it,” He said, finding the rather handy multi-tool he’d used earlier. He flipped it open one-handed, finding a useful-looking flathead screwdriver bit.

“You have one of those?” John asked, surprised. “When did you get that?”

“Last year,” Rodney replied, trying out the tool. “I forgot I had it.”

John watched as Rodney shoved at the lock, the tool slipping once or twice as Rodney tried to work with only one arm. “Here,” He said, using his tied hands to apply greater force.

The lock on one ankle broke with a snap, the manacle falling open. John switched to the other ankle, which also came loose easily. “You’re gonna have to do my wrists,” He said, handing the tool back.

It took a little longer, but Rodney did get John’s wrists free. “Now can you stand?” He asked, struggling up himself.

John leaned back on a support column for a minute, rubbing his wrists and ankles. “I think so,” He replied, inching up the column. Once he was standing, John took a few steps. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.” He was still in pain and he probably looked like hell, bruised from one end to the other, but he wasn’t incapacitated.

Back upstairs, John admired Rodney’s handiwork as they left. “What did you do to his neck?”

“Butcher knife,” Rodney said shortly, pointing to the knife he’d abandoned on the floor. “Don’t start about the gun; at least I finally remembered it.”

John shook his head. “I’m not saying a word, Rodney. After all, I’m the one who got tied to the ceiling.”

“Exactly,” Rodney stated, nodding. “Do we have a splint in the plane?”

“Yeah, in the first aid kit,” John told him. The front door was still locked and John couldn’t find a way to open it. Rodney checked one of the windows, which was also locked but didn’t have any bars on it.

“Just break one of these,” Rodney said to John, pointing at the window. “It’s faster than trying to figure out the door.”

John picked up a fireplace poker and went at the window, which broke easily—and set off the security alarm. “Oh hell,” He muttered, quickly clearing out the worst of the glass. He climbed through, reaching back to help Rodney. “Come on, before the cops show,” He told Rodney, who was already running.

They made it to the plane without any difficulty, John taxiing down the runway just as blue lights began flashing in the distance. He got them in the air before looking over to check up on Rodney. “How’s your arm?”

“In need of medical attention. How’re you?” Rodney inquired, his voice strained from pain.

“I feel like a piñata,” John admitted. “I’m gonna land in the lake, away from the last place. We need to get your arm fixed up.”

Rodney nodded, relieved they were going to do something, even if it wouldn’t take away the pain he was feeling. He waited, cradling his arm, until John landed them in a secluded area of the lake. Every jolt and lurch made Rodney’s arm ache, but he could tell from John’s expression that it wasn’t any easier on the pilot.

“Come on,” John said, leading the way out of the cockpit. Rodney sat on the floor while John went through the first aid kit, laying out a splint and some cloth ties for it. “How bad is the break?” He asked Rodney, glancing down at the arm.

“Simple,” Rodney replied. “The bone needs aligning, though.”

John nodded and got to work. Realigning the bone made Rodney scream, but John didn’t make fun of him. Once the splint was on, however, Rodney felt a little better. “That okay?” John murmured, still cradling Rodney’s arm.

“Good,” Rodney gasped. “What about you?”

John shrugged, wincing at the movement. “Not much we can do; it’s mostly bruising.”

“How bad?” Rodney insisted. “If you’ve got internal bleeding, we’ve got to go back to Weir’s.”

John shook his head. “Nothing that bad. Maybe a cracked rib. Besides, there’s just one house left.”

“If you get dizzy or woozy, though...” Rodney began, even as they crawled back into the cockpit. “Don’t do the brave-but-stupid stoic bit or I’ll kill you myself.”

“Duly noted,” John said dryly. “Last place, and this time we are definitely not going inside.”

“Agreed,” Rodney replied, watching for the storm as they took off.

The flight took longer than it should have, due to their brief stop for application of first aid. “What happened to the mirror?” Rodney inquired when he realized that John hadn’t been carrying it when they left the house.

“Fell on it in the cellar,” John replied. “Seven years bad luck, I guess.”

Rodney grinned. “Superstitions are useless artifacts, you know.”

“We’ve still got yours,” John reminded him.

Rodney winced. “Sort of,” He admitted. “I might have used it to fend off the dead guy.”

“Sort of?” John echoed. “As in...”

Rodney used his good hand to locate the half of the compact he’d recovered. “We still have the magnifying half. The other part went flying.”

“I’m not commenting,” John said, trying to suppress a grin. “Although for future reference, mirrors only work on mist, zombies and witches.”

“I noticed,” Rodney said dryly, stuffing the mirror back in his carryall.

The last house was yet another anonymous-looking bungalow, larger than the lakeside ones but no more memorable. “No going inside, remember,” John warned. “And we’d better make it fast; it’s going to be daylight soon.”

Rodney nodded and followed John to the house’s front porch. They’d lost more time than he’d thought in the last place and Rodney thought he might’ve been tied up in that linen closet longer than he’d first thought.

John knocked on the door, bringing the attention of a harried woman. “Let me guess, trick-or-treaters,” She said, checking them out. “God, I wish I had the time and freedom to go running around at night, bugging people.”

“So do we,” Rodney muttered under his breath.

“I used to, you know,” She said, leaning against the doorframe. “Goddamned ex fixed that right up, didn’t he?” She continued with a harsh laugh. “What’re you two supposed to be, P.O.W.s?”

John looked down at his ragged, filthy clothing. “How’d you guess?” He asked. “Was it the fatigues?”

“That and the blood,” She replied, missing his sarcasm. Rodney gritted his teeth and held his tongue. He didn’t want to chat; he wanted to get the damned candy and go home. Home held a shower and a bed, which Rodney wanted in that order. And maybe some drugs; his arm really ached.

“We tried to be as accurate as possible,” John said smoothly, smiling a little. “Guess it worked.”

“Uh huh,” She grunted, scratching her head. “My old man was in the Army, got caught in ‘Nam. Spent six months in prison before they let’em go. Came back all fucked up.” She spun one finger in front of an ear. “Crazy in the head. Used to freak out at night. Mom kicked him out when he wouldn’t stop having nightmares.”

“That’s too bad,” Rodney commented. Yes, far too bad that the lady’s mother hadn’t been the one booted out of her home for something she couldn’t control.

“Nah,” The lady replied with a grimace. “Old man wasn’t never worth much. Drank all the time, never kept a job. Should’ve just died over there.”

John really wanted to hurt this lady, even if she hadn’t done anything to actually hurt either him or Rodney. People like this made him sick. “Shame,” He murmured, fingernails digging into his palms. “Say, it’s pretty late...”

“And we’ve got to get home soon,” Rodney added. “I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”

“Nope,” She said. “Just me and the brats. But yeah, I getcha, you’re here for the goodies.” The leer she shot them made both men cringe.

“Treats, yes,” Rodney confirmed. “Candy would be good.”

The lady disappeared from the doorway briefly when a series of plaintive wails began. “Kids?” Rodney mouthed, eyeing John.

“Sounds like it,” John confirmed. Indeed, the lady reappeared with a baby in each arm, looking, if possible, more discontent than before.

“Fucking brats,” She swore, jostling the kids. “Never do shut up for more than ten damned minutes.”

“Colic?” Rodney offered. “Or maybe it’s the storm. Pretty loud, you know.”

“Right,” She said, glaring at him. “Hold these two mutts a sec and I’ll go get your damned candy.” With that she thrust a kid at each man.

Rodney wasn’t going to take the baby, but the lady simply let it drop and his arms shot out instinctively. No matter how annoying, a baby was a baby. John caught the second kid, who peered up at him quizzically before letting loose with another howl.

They were distracted by the babies and didn’t notice the lady’s disappearance until the door slammed shut, the bolt sliding into place with a loud click. “Excuse me?” Rodney shouted at the door, “You left your kids out here!”

John tried to position the baby on one arm, freeing the other. “Ma’am? I think your kid needs a clean diaper!”

A loud, obnoxious laugh emanated from the house. “Trick-or-treat, assholes!”

Rodney looked over at John, who was being spat up on by the kid he held. It looked like dinner had involved something green and pasty. “Um...did she just...”

“Lady, you can’t give kids away for Halloween!” John yelled, wincing as the kid spat up again. “It’s against the law!”

“Oh, go to hell,” The lady shouted back. “They’re yours now, fuckers, so just take’em. Can’t stand the little freaks.”

Rodney reached for the door handle. “This isn’t funny and we’re not taking your children!” He said, turning the knob.

A loud, familiar click stopped Rodney’s hand. “Rodney, step back from the door,” John whispered as he moved off the porch. Rodney nodded silently, having heard the shotgun himself.

“Now you two get gone,” The lady called out. “And tell Weir the next time she drags me into her shit, I’m gonna call my brother and nobody wants me to do that.”

Rodney took a deep breath. “John?”

John looked down at the children they held, infants both. “Apples, toothbrushes, candy corn, maggots and snickers bars.”

“And babies,” Rodney added. “Tell me again why I work for Weir?”

“Fortune and glory,” John replied. “Alright, so we just got given two babies by a shotgun-toting bitch.”

“I don’t suppose you have infant seats in the plane,” Rodney inquired. They walked down the path, trying not to get too annoyed by the screaming children.

“No,” John replied, “But I’ve got some cargo netting, and this is the last stop. Maybe Weir’s expecting the kids, you know.”

“Don’t you think she would’ve mentioned it if we were transporting children?” Rodney argued. “I mean...babies, John. Babies!”

A shotgun blast sounded over their heads, making both men duck. “I said get gone,” The lady screamed from the porch. “That means go, right now before I lose my temper!”

Rodney and John ran the rest of the way to the plane. “How are we supposed to strap them in?” Rodney asked once they got inside.

John handed Rodney his kid and fiddled with the cargo netting. “Here, this should work,” He said, making a couple of nests for the babies. “You’ll have to stay back here, though, to make sure nothing happens to them.”

“With the smelly diapers and the projectile vomiting,” Rodney complained. “How nice.”

John smirked. “Well, you could fly us out of here.”

Rodney busied himself finding a way to secure his own person in the cargo area while John got them underway. “The storm’s kicking up,” Rodney announced, even though John had to be aware of it. Wind buffeted them all around and lightning struck much too close for Rodney’s comfort.

John focused on flying, ignoring Rodney’s running commentary. Visibility was low, the wind was bad, and they only had a few minutes to get back to Weir’s place. He concentrated on keeping them in the air, not paying attention to anything else, so Rodney’s scream was especially jolting.

“John!” Rodney shouted, scrambling to the front of the plane. “Get us out of here!”

“What’s going on?” John yelled back, trying to be heard over the storm. Something thumped on the floor and a fire extinguisher sailed into the cockpit. He looked back over his shoulder to see Rodney cowering in front of two huge, tentacled things that were tangled in cargo netting.

“Not babies,” Rodney gasped out, using a length of pipe to smack at the tentacles reaching for him. “They want the candy or something.”

“Damnit,” John swore. They didn’t have time for attacking monster babies jonesing for candy. “You ok?”

“No!” Rodney screamed as a tentacle got wrapped around his ankle. One baby-monster dragged Rodney to the back of the plane while the other tried to confiscate his carryall. Rodney bonked the first monster on the head with his pipe and then gouged at the second one.

A tentacle slapped Rodney across the face but he whacked it with the pipe too, making the baby-monster scream. He edged back to the front of the plane, swinging at anything that moved. “Go faster, John,” Rodney warned as the cargo netting began to give way. “They’re gonna get loose.”

John spotted Weir’s runway and began his descent. “Just a couple of minutes, Rodney,” John shouted back. He felt something brush his head and jerked around in time to see Rodney smack a tentacle away from him. One of Rodney’s eyes was swelling up and he screamed in pain as a tentacle struck his splinted arm.

Rodney gasped for air, almost blacking out from pain when something gripped his broken arm. He felt his good hand drop the pipe and reach over, digging nails into slimy tentacle. The monster let go and Rodney scrabbled for a weapon, anything that would keep the babies at bay without killing them. Weir probably didn’t have any use for dead baby-monsters and Rodney was not going to be the one to fuck up this mission any worse than it had already been fubarred.

The first object Rodney found was a plastic pail, so he used that to swat at tentacles. It wasn’t as effective as the pipe, but he thought maybe the baby-monsters were distracted by its bright yellow color, as well as by the small red shovel that was attached to the handle. Their eyes, perched on tall stalks, followed it as he defended himself and after a minute, Rodney simply began waving the thing in the air.

John looked back to check on Rodney, who hadn’t complained in almost a minute. He found Rodney waving a children’s sand bucket, apparently hypnotizing the monsters. Their eyes and tentacles swayed with the bucket, obviously enraptured. “Just don’t sing for them,” John warned.

“I don’t sing,” Rodney snapped. “Are we there yet?”

“Yep,” John announced as they landed. Well, he tried to land, but just as he hit the runway, the Volkswagon beetle he’d struck earlier pulled out, ramming into his landing gear. The plane skidded off the runway, pushing through Weir’s immaculate yard to come to a stop right at her front porch.

John unbuckled himself and went to the back of the plane, where Rodney was staring at two sleeping babies. “Huh,” He murmured. “Guess they don’t like flying.”

“I guess,” Rodney echoed. “So we’re back?”

“Colonel Sheppard! Dr. McKay!”

“Yeah, we’re back,” John said as they listened to Kavanagh shout at them.

Kavanagh appeared as soon as John opened the plane. “You two almost didn’t make it back,” He chided before he got a good look at them. “And what the hell have you been doing?”

Rodney shoved a baby at Kavanagh. “Carry that and shut up.”

John helped Rodney out of the plane, taking the other baby. Rodney carried the candy, limping alongside John as they made their way inside. A few revelers remained, each one taking a good two steps back when they saw John and Rodney.

“What is that smell?” One whispered. “Did something die?”

Rodney growled at the speaker before moving on. “Kavanagh, where’s Weir?”

“Waiting for you with Caldwell,” Kavanagh told him. “They’re pissed that you’re so late.”

They walked into the ballroom, where Elizabeth and Caldwell held court in front of the tattered remains of her party. “What the...” Caldwell began, eyes narrowing. “Colonel Sheppard, where have you been?”

“The mission was successful,” John announced, setting the baby he carried down on a nearby table. “We procured the necessary items from each dwelling and returned before sunrise.”

Rodney emptied his bag on the table, right between John’s baby and the one Kavanagh deposited. Weir glared at their disheveled states before pawing through the treats.

“Maggots?” She screamed, dropping the plastic baggie full of foul candy. “And toothbrushes?”

John shrugged. “I don’t think everyone in your subdivision got into the holiday spirit, ma’am.”

“The candy corn’s ok,” Caldwell said as he ate a few pieces. “Kavanagh, call Dr. Beckett. He’ll like the babies.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about them already,” Beckett said as he walked into the room. John and Rodney’s eyes widened as they saw Dr. Frankenstein, albeit with a brogue, come up to peer at the babies. “Such sweet little things.”

“Um,” Rodney began nervously, “They’re a little temperamental.”

“A lot temperamental,” John corrected. “They’re little monsters.”

Frankenbeckett rolled his eyes. “Baby haters,” He said, taking up both infants. “I’ll be keeping these little darlings in my lab, Weir. They’re just what I was looking for to complete that top secret project.”

John felt a frisson of fear for the babies. Yeah, they were monsters, but they were still kids. Surely Weir wasn’t going to let Beckett experiment on them...

“To be honest,” Elizabeth began, eyes steely, “I expected better out of my top team.”

“We finished the mission successfully,” Rodney protested. “See?” He pointed at the table.

“Most of this stuff is useless,” She countered, almost pouting. “Except for the candy corn, that is. I don’t even like apples.”

“You can keep the toothbrushes,” Caldwell stated, throwing the items at Rodney and John, who caught them reflexively. “And go get cleaned up, for god’s sake. Tomorrow you’re scheduled to escort Landry and Maybourne on a tour of the facilities.”

With that, Elizabeth and Caldwell stomped away, making off with all the candy corn and the Snickers bars that Rodney thought they might leave behind.

“I feel cheated,” Rodney admitted, looking over at John. “My arm’s broken, I’m covered in several types of slime, and all I got out of this entire ordeal is a cheap toothbrush.”

John tossed the toothbrush down next to the apples. “Come on, let’s get a shower or something.” He needed a bath, a massage and a cup of something hot and alcoholic. Maybe something else, too, depending on how Rodney felt after they got cleaned up.

Kavanagh was waiting for them when they reached Rodney’s room. “Oh, go away,” Rodney ordered when Kavanagh stood to assist them. “You got to stay here and party all night, you insufferable little toady.” The asshole looked like he’d spent the evening having safe, family-friendly fun and that did nothing for Rodney’s already-foul mood.

“Be that way,” Kavanagh sniffed as he stormed out.

John helped Rodney shower, keeping the splint dry. Rodney in turn made nice, apologetic noises as he examined John’s many bruises, most of which were big and ugly.

“Tell me you have a coffee maker up here,” John said as they dried themselves off. “Or tea, or cocoa, or something. And booze. Alcohol is our friend, Rodney.”

Rodney went over to his desk, where a huge brass espresso machine sat. “Cappuccino? Mocha?”

John stared at the contraption. “Macchiato,” He said, practically begging.

A few minutes later they were ensconced in Rodney’s bed, groaning as sore muscles finally started to relax. John leaned against Rodney’s good side, staring out the window as rain poured down. It was getting lighter already, the sun trying to shine through heavy cloud cover.

“It’s not fair,” Rodney said sleepily, burring deeper into the bed. “I’ve got you in my bed, naked no less, and I can’t do anything with you.”

John tried to grin, but it hurt too much. He wasn’t going to be able to move in another few minutes. Without any life-threatening scenarios, he was suffering a serious adrenalin crash. “Not like I can do anything either,” He admitted to Rodney. “’Cept sleep.”

“Sleep’s good,” Rodney agreed muzzily. “Can we have sex later?”

John reached for the light switch just above Rodney’s headboard. Flicking it off hurt, but at least the room wasn’t light anymore. “Sure thing, Rodney” He murmured just as sleep claimed him.

•••

“They’re coming to.”

John blinked, or at least tried to. Fuzzy light seeped in behind his eyelids, burning faintly. Every part of him ached a little; his muscles were sore and his skin itched. It shouldn’t have itched; the shower he’d taken with Rodney the night before had been very thorough, leaving not a trace of their mission behind.

Of course, Rodney’s room hadn’t smelled like antiseptic either. John tried to open his eyes again, wincing against the brightness.

“Dim the lights. His retinas are still healing from the infection.”

Infection? John frowned in confusion. Still, the light lessoned somewhat and blurry shapes began congealing, forming vaguely person-like shapes.

“Colonel Sheppard?”

Ah yes, Dr. Beckett. John laughed absently, wondering if Carson had survived the babies. Obviously he had, if he was talking to John. John, who was in Rodney’s bed.

It wasn’t the best place to be found, not when Weir and Caldwell hadn’t been too happy with him the night before. John struggled to sit up, trying to find his voice. His tongue felt dry and chalky, his throat burning a bit like he hadn’t drunk half a gallon of water and a macchiato before bedtime.

“Easy now, lad,” Carson murmured, gently pressing John back down onto the bed. Another bright light flashed in John’s eyes as latex-covered fingers held his lids open. “Can you speak?”

John tried, but all that came out was a dry croak. Carson’s face got clearer, though, as did the rest of the room.

He was in the infirmary. In Atlantis. Things got pretty strange for a moment as John tried to reconcile the night before with the morning after. Someone stuck a straw in his mouth and he heard Carson’s voice urge him to take small sips of water. Machinery hummed in the background, monitoring someone’s heart.

Mushrooms. John remembered mushrooms, pale and glowing in the darkness. A full moon, some restless natives and Rodney lying in a bed of crushed, earthy softness. “Carson?” John whispered, blinking a few times to further clear his vision.

“Aye,” Carson said, nodding. “It’s good to have you back, Colonel. We were quite worried about you.”

John tried to sit up again, this time with greater success. The bed rose with him and John swung his head around to find a nurse working the mechanism. “Okay,” John said, frowning slightly. “Rodney?” He asked, suddenly intensely worried about the man. If he was in the infirmary, where was Rodney?

Carson gestured towards a bed a few feet away. “He’s not awake quite yet, but it’s just a matter of time,” The doctor told John. “You’ve both shown remarkable progress over the last few hours. For several days we didn’t think you’d make it.”

Before John could ask what Carson was talking about, Dr. Weir walked in. “He’s awake?” She asked, somewhat unnecessarily in John’s opinion. He was sitting up, staring at her, so yeah he was awake.

“Just a few minutes ago,” Carson replied. “Still getting his bearings.”

“And Rodney?” She pressed nervously, glancing over at the unconscious man.

Carson’s sigh told John quite a bit, namely that he’d had this conversation repeatedly. “I’m confident he’ll wake shortly, Dr. Weir. You’ve got to keep in mind their different physiologies. It was somewhat more difficult to maintain Rodney’s blood sugar levels this past week.”

“Week?” John whispered, his voice scratchy.

Carson turned back to John. “A week, aye. It’s taken us that long to find a way to combat the fungus that infected you. Nasty bugger it was, too.”

John looked down at his hands, which looked a little sunburnt. “Fungus?” He inquired, feeling bewildered. “The mushrooms?”

Carson nodded. “You don’t remember a thing, do you?”

John was about to confirm that when a low moan emanated from Rodney’s bed. He felt guilty about the relief that washed through him when everyone’s attention was turned to Rodney and away from him.

A week? John knew last night had been long, but not that long. He remembered the mushrooms, more now than when he’d first woken up. Then there was the mission...

John’s mind did a stutter step. That mission didn’t fit into any reality John ever experienced. Costumes, monsters and shapeshifting planes? It was a lot more like a very long, very warped dream. Or an especially vivid acid trip.

Nearby, Rodney grumbled and whined his way to consciousness. The sound was reassuring to John, although he was still confused enough he didn’t trust himself to talk. And, he was tired, very tired.

It took almost an hour for Carson to return to John’s bedside, although several nurses had stopped by in the interim. “I’d say you need more rest,” Carson declared, taking in John’s exhausted appearance. “As does Rodney.” John looked over at Rodney, who was already asleep. He’d overheard the discussions; Rodney was alright, but he’d taken more of a beating than John had. Guilt came back full force, making John nauseous in addition to his overwhelming fatigue.

“Sleep,” Carson ordered, lowering John’s bed. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

But it was just morning now, John wanted to say. Instead, he let himself drift back to sleep, vaguely frightened of what he might dream.

As it turned out, John didn’t dream anything memorable. When he woke next, the infirmary was its normal, quiet self. Rodney was already awake, sitting up in his bed and sipping at some water. Like John, his skin was brighter than normal, glowing almost obscenely in comparison to the pale infirmary linens. A lonely orange streamer—remnants of Halloween decorations, no doubt—fluttered in front of an air vent. They’d missed whatever Halloween party had gone on. John found himself rather undisappointed.

“Finally,” Rodney grumbled when John tried to sit up. “Carson is refusing to explain what’s going on until we’re both conscious. Said he didn’t want to have to say it twice.”

“And I don’t,” Carson declared when he walked into their curtained-off area. “Living through it was enough for me; I’d rather not discuss the details more than I absolutely have to.”

“What happened?” John asked as he accepted some water from a nurse.

Carson found a stool and took a seat. “Do you remember anything about the mission?” He asked curiously.

Rodney thought for a moment. “The one with the forest?” He replied vaguely.

“That one,” Carson said. “Ronon and Teyla reported that you ran into hostile activity. The attackers chased you into a forest, where you got split up. You two stumbled into some local fungi, while Ronon and Teyla took shelter in a shallow cavern.”

“Yeah, the mushrooms,” John said, recalling again the impressive growths. “They were big.”

“I know,” Carson commented. “You must’ve stayed in the cluster until past dark.”

Rodney nodded. “Hiding. The locals were all around us.”

“It might not seem like it now, but it was a good thing you did,” Carson informed them. “Teyla and Ronon almost didn’t make it back for reinforcements and it took a dozen Marines to locate and extract you. Suffice to say, Dr. Weir’s crossed that planet off our trading list.”

“So what happened to us?” John inquired. “I think I remember...spores?” He had a hazy memory of dark powder raining down on him, but then he was in a jet. It didn’t make any sense.

Carson ran one hand through his hair, mussing it completely. “That particular species of fungus feeds off living tissue,” He said, his face grave. “No one saw any sign you tried to get out, but you probably couldn’t have anyway. They had to hack at the stalks with axes to free you. You were brought back here bound together in a mass of hyphae.”

“We didn’t,” Rodney confirmed. “But they broke easy enough when we fell on them.”

“They were designed to,” Carson said. “After nightfall, the caps opened and you inhaled the spores. They immediately entered your blood stream, infecting you with the fungus.”

John blinked. “Oh. Wow.”

“Yes,” Carson murmured, “Wow. By the time they got you back here, you were covered in hyphae. The fungus released a neurotoxin into your bloodstream, rendering you unconscious so you couldn’t try to fight it off.”

“Neurotoxin,” Rodney echoed. John nodded, mostly to himself. Things were starting to make sense. The mission, with all of its weird details, its all-too psychedelic realness. He’d never really questioned what was going on, although in retrospect it was all too freakish.

Carson went right on, unaware of what was going on in Rodney and John’s minds. “We almost didn’t get you back, to be honest. Hell, the fungus was about to grow fruiting bodies. If it had gotten that far, there wouldn’t have been enough of you left to salvage.”

John’s head whipped up. They’d almost gotten eaten alive? “How’d you do it?”

“We isolated some antibodies in your bloodstreams that were trying to fight the fungus. They weren’t enough by themselves, but we synthesized more. That, combined with some fairly powerful antifungal drugs managed to do the trick.”

“Thanks,” John said quietly. He’d almost become an oversized mushroom. John wondered if Rodney had had as strange a trip as he had.

“Did you even notice time passing?” Carson asked them. “We couldn’t tell; your neural activity was rather erratic, but that could’ve been the toxin.”

Rodney glanced over at John. “Um...it’s hard to say,” He replied. “And not very clear, I think. Maybe something, but...”

Carson just nodded. “Most chemicals of that sort don’t allow for much functioning, so it’s not surprising that you don’t have any recollections.”

They discussed a few other relevant issues, such as recovery time. Neither John nor Rodney was happy to find out that Carson wanted them to stay in the infirmary for another week, but both men knew they were too weak to argue. John couldn’t make it out of bed and Rodney was in no better shape.

Finally, however, they’d been left alone with strict instructions to go back to sleep.

“So...” John began, looking over at Rodney. “No memories?”

Rodney grimaced. “Maybe a few.”

John nodded. “Me too. Weird, though.”

“Weird how?” Rodney inquired.

John fiddled with his IV, not sure he wanted to tell Rodney about the specifics. “I think I’ve got a very vivid imagination,” John hedged. “It was all about Halloween.”

Rodney simply looked at him. “Mine too. Probably because of that conversation with Teyla and Ronon.”

“Yeah, and the party I guess we missed,” John murmured. “If I never see another piece of candy corn, it’ll be too soon.”

All of a sudden, Rodney’s gaze sharpened. “I see,” He murmured. “What about, say, clowns?”

John blinked. “Clowns?”

“You know,” Rodney said, gesturing with his free hand, “Clowns. Safe, stupid clowns with white faces and funny hats. Clowns.”

Safe. Clowns were safe? John thought quickly, not sure he liked any of the conclusions he drew. How did Rodney know that John thought clowns were safe? “Safer than acrobats,” He replied slowly, testing the waters.

“I knew it,” Rodney stated, nodding. “We had the same hallucination. Clowns, acrobats and candy corn. That carriage that turned into a Studebaker, too.”

“It was a jet,” John argued. “How did we have the same hallucination?” Did that mean Rodney hallucinated having sex with him? Oh, fuck.

“You saw a jet, I saw a carriage,” Rodney countered. “And we had to have shared that hallucination; my unconscious isn’t nearly irrational enough to conjure up that kind of insanity.”

“Don’t be so sure,” John told him. “It wasn’t my mind that came up with the compact mirror.”

Rodney remained quiet for a short while, obviously thinking hard. “I wonder how much we shared,” He finally said, looking down at his feet.

“I wonder which one of us put the cappuccino machine in your room,” John mused, trying to very subtly figure out if Rodney had been an actual part of the more pleasant parts of his little acid trip. Maybe they’d shared all of it, but maybe not. As he looked back on his memories, John saw just how odd the whole thing had been. It was as though he and Rodney had been together, but not in the same world. They’d seen everything differently, at least in the beginning. Then stuff started to merge, until they were in the same reality.

Only they woke up in the infirmary and John didn’t know if he’d had sex with Rodney or not. Did it count if it was only in his mind and not in reality? What if it was only in his mind and not in Rodney’s too?

“We had sex,” Rodney blurted out, face managing to blush even through its reddened tint. “Didn’t we?”

John’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Sort of,” He murmured, glancing around to make sure no one was standing too near. “Does it count if it was in a dream?”

“Shared dream,” Rodney corrected. “Oh god, we had sex. And you thought I was a clown.”

“I thought the sex was pretty good,” John admitted. “And I also thought we got past the clown thing.”

“Oh,” Rodney replied mutedly. “We were going to have sex again, weren’t we?”

John nodded. “We were planning on it, I think, yeah.”

“Ah,” Rodney murmured, stunned. They’d wanted to have sex again, before they fell asleep. Now they were awake and none of the other stuff had been the least bit real.

“We could still have sex again,” John told Rodney, his voice a bit tentative. “Or for the first time, again, or maybe just for...you know what I mean.”

This time it was Rodney who blinked. “We could?” He said. Could they? John actually wanted to have sex with him? It wasn’t just a nice, Rodney’s-id creation that John’s id had gone along with for the sake of expediency?

“If you wanted to,” John said a little too nonchalantly.

Rodney caught the tone of voice, his mind racing. “We could,” He said once again, “But not here. Carson would have a heart attack.”

“I’d have a heart attack,” John informed him, although now John was smiling for real. “I can’t walk to the bathroom on my own, so I definitely can’t manage anything else.”

“Neither can I,” Rodney admitted, “But we’ll be out of here in a week.” A week, which was a very long time when sex was in the offing. Never mind that Rodney felt like he’d been dragged through seven hells. Sex. A week. He couldn’t even masturbate in the infirmary. Could he get an erection, as weak as he was? They were talking about sex, but he hadn’t felt the tiniest twitch. Surely his penis would recover along with the rest of his body...wouldn’t it?

“We will be,” John confirmed. “Are you really as ticklish as you were in the shower?”

Rodney swallowed audibly. “Maybe.” A week sitting in bed a few feet from John Sheppard, who knew just how ticklish he was. Maybe Carson could sedate one of them.

John’s laughter drew more attention than either man wanted, but they didn’t complain. Carson brought them water and promises of belated Halloween candy, some that had been saved in case they survived their ordeal. The bowl sat a good distance away, so that they couldn’t get into it before Carson thought they were ready for solid food.

Rodney eyed the bowl warily. “I never, ever thought I’d be in a position to not want candy.”

John shuddered. “I’m right there with you, Rodney. Well, except for chocolate.”

“Chocolate, yes. Candy corn? No way,” Rodney swore, right before cracking a huge yawn. “And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat another mushroom as long as I live.”

This time when John laughed, the infirmary staff simply shook their heads and left the two men alone.

•••

Rodney leaned back in his chair, glaring balefully at the towering stack of reports on his desktop. Well, if they’d been done on paper they’d have made an impressive stack; as it was his computer’s screen was covered with annoying little icons. Two weeks’ worth of reports and Rodney wondered if Zelenka and the others had done anything besides write reports while he’d been out of commission.

Dr. Weir hadn’t let him do any work while he was recovering, which meant he had twice the amount of stuff to slog through now that he was a free man. An entire week in the infirmary, with nothing to do but listen to John natter on about this and that. Listening to John wasn’t the problem, though. The man had a nice enough voice and after a single, well-worded threat regarding the future functionality of John’s nether regions had put a stop to any innuendo.

After five days, however, Rodney would’ve happily put up with John teasing him. There hadn’t been a damned thing to do while he lay around getting better. Physical therapy was painful but boring. Now he was back in his quarters, which was good even if Carson had restricted his workload and mission status for at least another two weeks. Rodney wasn’t going to complain, at least out loud, not after it took him almost an hour to convince Carson he didn’t have to ground Rodney for an entire month.

“Coffee?”

Rodney jerked in his seat, shocked to hear John’s voice. “How did you get in here?” He asked, even as he recalled once again that the city loved John and did almost anything he asked of it.

John smirked and set a cup of coffee on Rodney’s desk. “I have my ways. And damn, that’s a lot of reports.”

“Tell me about it,” Rodney grumbled, reaching for the coffee. “Caldwell and Lorne took care of yours, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” John admitted sheepishly. “Lorne’s better at them anyway. He has that administrative mindset.”

Rodney snorted ungraciously. “He’ll be a perfect General then, I suppose.”

“Once he collects enough box tops,” John muttered, taking a seat on Rodney’s bed. “I thought Dr. Weir wanted to meet with you after you got out.”

“We talked briefly,” Rodney grunted, turning back to his computer. Having John in his room was awkward and tense in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. They weren’t much with the casual conversation at the best of times and right now Rodney didn’t have any desire to engage in courtesy chat. He knew why John was here—sex. Either having sex in what passed for their reality was a good idea, or it was a bad one. They were going to have sex or they weren’t going to talk about their shared hallucination ever again.

John watched Rodney not-really-focus on his computer. “Do I make you nervous?”

Rodney swiveled back around. “Yes, when you show up all of four hours after we’ve spent a week in the infirmary together and want to talk about Weir and meaningless staff reports.”

“Should we talk about something else?” John asked evenly, taking another sip of coffee. “The weather? How ‘bout them Yankees?”

Rodney’s expression flattened into one of casual disdain. “No, no and no,” He said shortly. “I’d much rather trim my toenails with a hedge clipper. Why did you come here?”

John walked over to the desk and put his cup down. Rodney hated being loomed over, but John had him trapped; he couldn’t stand without seriously invading the man’s personal space. “I didn’t think you’d come to my place,” John told him. “And I was right, wasn’t I? You were going to hide out in here as long as you could, and avoid me until you figured I’d forgotten about it.”

“No,” Rodney murmured, forcing himself not to cringe back from John’s gaze. “I was going to go to the mess hall for breakfast tomorrow. It’s not all that unusual for me to spend an entire night in my quarters, at least when there isn’t an emergency.”

“Rodney,” John warned, moving forward. Rodney had to lean back in his chair again, tilting his head against the backrest. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“About what?” Rodney made himself ask. He wasn’t about to make any assumptions where John was concerned. They had to work together and Rodney really did want to retain at least a molecule of the man’s respect.

John braced himself on Rodney’s shoulders and bent down, pressing his lips to Rodney’s. This was real, was all John could think when Rodney’s mouth opened under his. The memories from their hallucination couldn’t compare to this reality; the taste and texture of the kiss was just different enough to prove that shared psychedelic sex just wasn’t the same as the real thing.

Rodney couldn’t help comparing this kiss to the first one John had given him in the plane, back when he was still angry and confused. This one was better, infinitely so. John’s tongue was teasing his, wetter and stronger than in his dream-memories. When it finally ended, all Rodney could do was suck in a breath and stay pinned in place, waiting.

“So?” John murmured, straddling Rodney’s lap.

Rodney frowned. John was asking him about something and it really wasn’t fair to make him multitask now. Sure, he could think about other things during sex, but he’d rather not. “So what?”

John was amused by Rodney’s slightly disgruntled expression. “Never mind, Rodney,” He muttered before leaning in for another kiss.

Rodney held on tightly and for once managed to follow along and not ask what John was talking about. It probably wasn’t important anyway—at least, not more important than the sex they were most assuredly going to have posthaste.

He wasn’t wrong.