The note on the kitchen counter said, "Enough. I know you tried." Tess's clothes were gone from the closets, her make-up was gone from the bathroom counter, the paintings she'd picked out the last time they redecorated were gone from the walls. Danny walked out to the garage to confirm that her car was gone too, then stood in the driveway for a long time, gazing at-- well, he wasn't sure what, exactly. Eventually it got dark, and he went back inside and poured himself a glass of Oban. (All the liquor was still in the cabinet, but the expensive French wines Tess favored were gone from their rack.)
She's been followed since she left her office in the Sato building half an hour ago. There are two different tails and, she notes upon reaching the small shuttle dock just outside of San Francisco, a rather adorable recruit doing a mediocre job at pretending to be a disinterested passer-by. She's also fairly certain that the girl is in her Introduction to Array Processing class.
On a chill and waning afternoon, they paroled Daniel Ocean for the first time. Daniel was a good guy, a regular guy, with a flat, calm manner and a heavy, almost lumbering walk. He didn't smile much. He wasn't a victim, but he wasn't a bully, either. He kind of hovered in the upper-middle of the pecking order, for no discernable reason. He helped guys with their appeals, he did the jobs he was assigned, he shot bull about who was gonna win the Super Bowl and the Final Four. He won at cards, but not enough to piss people off. He was never short of cigarettes and chocolate for trading. And when there was trouble, he always seemed to be somewhere else.
God, Danny was going to be glad to get out of this guy's skin.
Sam has never used undue influence. Quite frankly, she's never needed it. Her work has stood entirely on her own merits. She's used to doing twice as well as anyone else to go half as far. It's never tempted her to use Jack to get ahead. She has nothing but contempt for women who do that. But then, she's never needed to.
John Sheppard will be dying, out there in the twilight, in the dry desert. He might be watching the stars come out above him. He might be unconscious. He might be hoping (though hope obviously hasn't been a big part of his life in this universe) that Rodney, that the SGC, that someone will come for him.
Back in the control room at Area 51, Woolsey will be watching Rodney patiently, waiting to see if he'll crack, if Rodney's interest in Sheppard has blinded him to the cold realities of life.
John Sheppard'll die a hero's death. He'll have his redemption. He won't have to live with himself any more.
There'll be so many other Sheppards out there, so many realities. Some who've fucked up even worse. Some who are heroes.
This Sheppard, bleeding out on the dry earth, is the only one in Rodney's reality. The only one he'll be able to ... to salvage.
The possibility that he might ever wake up again was not something John had considered while bleeding out into the desert ground, his consciousness seeping away with what had seemed to be entirely too much blood.
The pain John felt upon waking was no surprise, though.
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