Work Text:
The war was done with, at last; but there would be others - there always were - so John didn’t plan on settling down just yet. He had some money for once, a good, hearty chunk of severance pay, and the whole wide kingdom to explore. And it may be that the sun shone down just now with only half a heart - already weary of the day - but a playful breeze took up the slack with glee, dancing and darting about him, like an eager puppy. Tugging him on to the west.
John smiled and shrugged to himself; and followed it.
***
The woods began to thin out just ahead, the trees getting more and more spread out and standoffish, until, suddenly, they sprouted a bakery.
It was red brick and unapologetic, with a colony of nesting birds on the roof and the most compellingly delightful scent that John had ever had the privilege of smelling. The outside of the building was less appealing, being sturdy but squat, built for practicality rather than beauty; but it made up for any shortcomings by the sign on the door, in blocky, dramatic handwriting, which read “Rodney McKay: Purveyor of Baked Goods and Exceptionally Excellent Lies”.
John read the last part twice, just to be sure, and idly wondered what kind of customers strolled in and asked for a nice slice of lie with their custard tarts and daily loaf; and if the baked goods, as they were lacking a descriptor, were less exceptionally excellent than the lies. He came rapidly to the conclusion that he would feel no less compelled to enter, even if they were the most wretched, hell-damned, breads and pastries imaginable.
The door was open. Inside, there were three small tables, meticulously clean, and a counter, behind which was a large array of sweet and savoury buns, cakes, pastries and other, stranger, things - exotic, unfathomable and yet radiating ‘unbelievably delicious’ with every glistening morsel - which all looked as far from hell-damned as it was possible to get. John was not a greedy man, by any means, but he had a sudden, fierce desire to devour every last one (and almost thought it might be worth the bloated and agonising death he would likely suffer in the attempt).
He was so distracted by the difficulty of choosing a more sensible one - or maybe three - of them, that he almost didn’t notice the man entering from the back of the shop. When he looked up, though, John noticed him very distinctly. He had a face which wasn’t exactly handsome and yet hit John’s liking just right. His eyes were as blue and bright as if they had stolen a snatch of the sky, his shoulders were strong and broad and his general demeanour was that of a man who had too much energy to be contained in a mere mortal body and which might dart out, like a bolt of lightning, at any time.
The man - Rodney McKay, John assumed - looked John up and down in return - and then again - before crossing his arms.
“Two groats apiece for the baked goods. Lies are negotiable.”
John had been so lost in the headiness of the food, that he had all but forgotten the more absurd of the establishment’s wares. He half opened his mouth to ask. But McKay had a combative air and a look of knowing expectation; and John liked to confound expectation, whenever it suited him to do so.
He therefore papered lightly over his curiosity, gave McKay a lazy smile, and pointed at the counter without looking, perfectly certain that whatever he picked would be an excellent choice.
“I’ll take one of those and one of those.”
Rodney narrowed his eyes, but nodded briskly and scooped out John’s choices; a savoury pasty that smelled like every good thing John had ever eaten and a delicate eclair with just the right amount of filling and a real chocolate glaze.
John had walked far, over hard country, yet these were not just the most incredible things which he had ever eaten, but seemed to fill him with energy enough to make the journey again, twice over; and a sense of utter, and complete, well-being, which he couldn’t remember ever having felt before, not even before his mother died and his childhood with her.
It was so marvellous, that he almost let himself not be suspicious of it.
But John had been a soldier for too long, and learnt too many tricks, to let this go.
“Hey McKay? You put something in these other than the rightful ingredients?”
McKay sighed and looked irritated, upset, hurt and a little resigned, in a way which John found made him want to, either go over and apologise, or simply fold him into his arms and give him a hug; this last being a very uncharacteristic feeling indeed, which sharpened his suspicions to a razor edge.
“This again! Honestly, you’d think being the best baker in the whole world would be a good thing! But no. I do fine for a while, the customers coming in droves, and then a few people - not many, but enough - start to get suspicious. ‘Why don’t I feel like arguing with my wife any more?’ ‘Why did I stop myself beating that beggar?’ ‘What’s with this strange sense of peace, contentment and neighbourliness?’ They’re never grateful. Some people just can’t understand happiness, or don’t trust their own better instincts, and so, bang, before you know it, I’m damned for a witch and people are bringing out the stakes and heaping up the firewood.”
John winced in sympathy. He examined his own feelings and decided that, after all, he was probably feeling unusually well fed and in good company, rather than being be-spelled and bewitched for some unfathomable purpose.
He smiled beguilingly at Rodney.
“Well, I guess I can promise not to burn you alive, if you let me have another pastry as good as these ones.”
Rodney gave him a look heaped high with dudgeon and just the tiniest sprinkling of amusement.
“I’d prefer your lack of inclination to kill me came without conditions, but… here. I think you’ll like this one.”
John did like it. He licked the plate, and his fingers, clean of every delicate crumb and enjoyed watching the traces of justifiable pride in his work, creeping steadily over McKay’s face and taking the last flecks of hurt away.
“So… have you considered, maybe, not being a baker? Seeing as how it’s such a fire hazard.”
McKay gave John a look which conveyed a witheringly low assessment of his intellect. John somehow didn’t find this as offensive as he probably should.
“Look, when I say I’m the best baker in the world, I’m not boasting. Well, not just boasting. I literally am the best. It’s a gift, or maybe a curse, but, whatever it is, it comes with a responsibility. And, before I get sentenced to death, which, admittedly, is never a fun time, there’re always people who benefit. People whose lives are improved through superior baking. Who find, in amongst the sticky buns, the courage to love, or forgive, or to laugh; or who just get to experience something beautiful.”
John considered what he’d eaten and how very, very good it had tasted. The lingering warmth of something perfect and right. He nodded thoughtfully and checked his stomach for holes.
He had walked a long, long way, after all.
“I think I’ll take just one more thing - your choice - and whatever you have to drink.”
John could stand, he figured, just a little more uncomplicated goodness in his life.
***
John wandered about some more and had many adventures of various kinds, good and bad. He met with people he liked and with people he hated and people with whom he got into contests, to see who could kill the other first. But he kept coming back to McKay’s bakery; and, after a while, he wasn’t sure if it was only the food that dragged him back - incredible as it unquestionably was - or whether there was something more.
He told himself that it was only that he hadn’t yet found out about the excellent lies, and fully intended to one day, even if he had to stoop to asking. Denied that it could have anything at all to do with blue eyes which rolled in disdain, and blazed when excited, and lit up whenever they saw him. With a tongue which was sharp and sarcastic and amusing, yet occasionally - almost despite itself - as sweet as sugar frosting. With arms that waved so wildly in enthusiasm, that John sometimes felt like ducking away, even from a good, safe distance; and with hands that were swift and deft, as they picked out the best of Rodney’s incomparable fare, just for John.
“Sheppard! Oh, of course, why am I not surprised that you’ve collected an entire new family of bruises while you were gone. Yes, yes, don’t tell me, someone was in trouble and you just can’t let that go, can you...”
Rodney fussed John to his chair and impatiently provided him with a cake - the very cake John had been considering asking for - and a mug of the dark, bitter liquid Rodney called ‘coffee’, which John had taken a liking to, and then heaved out his large medical box, which was always full of bandages and potions and salves, though John had no idea how Rodney got hold of them, out here in the lonely wilds.
He had only rarely seen any other customers, so far, and, in truth, he had no idea at all how Rodney continued in business or found the ingredients for the cakes and breads, which were always fresh and ready; but there was a lot in this world that John didn’t understand and he didn’t plan to break his brains on the unimportant things.
Rodney had just finished grumbling at John for getting hurt, all the while soothing his bruises gently, and wonderfully, with his salve, when the door opened and a woman came in. She was fine-looking and self-contained, glancing over at John with a little surprise, but no fear; only the warmth and interest of one human being for another.
“Greetings, Rodney. And to you, friend.”
“Teyla. You’re back quickly.”
Rodney sounded concerned and Teyla hastened to calm him.
“It all went well, Rodney. The lies held strong and true. But now I need a favour for a friend.”
Rodney relaxed and nodded.
“Fine, fine. Well, come on out back. Er, Sheppard, don’t feel you have to… that is, I won’t be long.”
He vanished into the back of the shop with Teyla and John was left with his burning curiosity and a disappointment which he carefully avoided examining.
He liked his own company well enough. He could manage without Rodney’s for a little while.
But, even the exceptionally fine pastry he nibbled at, didn’t quite fill that gap he felt, where a blue-eyed baker should be.
***
John saw Teyla again several times, after that, and more and more others besides, as word of the bakery - he assumed - got around and he no longer wondered how Rodney kept the business going, only how he could possibly make enough to go around.
A near giant of a man came very often, with tattoos and long hair and his words kept short and meaningful. A tall, elegant woman with dark, curling hair and the air of a noble and, just occasionally, a puckish smile. Some of the other customers, John had met before, out in the world, and he nodded to them and even passed a few words. His fellow ex-soldier Evan Lorne stopped by from time to time, and always made time for a conversation, though never for long.
They all bought something to eat - it would be a waste not to - but several of them also requested lies and these were ushered straight to the back; leaving John feeling slightly bereft once more, missing that quiet alone time with Rodney which he had grown a little too accustomed to.
His visits had recently become more frequent, almost daily, and he finally had to admit that he had settling down on his mind after all, despite all the rumours of war, never quiet and always - eventually - correct.
So he waited until late one evening, when the shop was finally empty of anyone but the two of them, and then he strolled over to Rodney; rested a hand on his shoulder, both light and heavy, all at once; looked him deep in the eyes; and opened his mouth to say - something; something important and binding and profound; something which swerved away at the last minute and turned into the question he had all but decided not to ask.
“So, what’s with the ‘excellent lies’?”
Rodney seemed to crumple a little under his touch, as if disappointed by something, but he rallied quickly, plastering on a layer of his finest ‘smug’.
“Hah. I knew you’d cave eventually. Well, then, come on back and I’ll show you.”
John followed Rodney out to the back room, where he had never been in - how many visits? So many and yet not nearly enough - and stopped short in amazement.
The room was covered in the most delicate and beautifully constructed things that John had ever seen. They were like webs and like clouds and like creatures and like lightning and like lace. They were intricate and intriguing and gorgeous; and something not entirely of this world.
“They’re just … I mean, wow, Rodney.”
Rodney grinned at him, his equilibrium now restored; showing nothing but simple pride and a warm, glowing pleasure in John’s pleasure.
“Good, right? Personally, I don’t think anyone could do better, not that, as far as I know, they’ve ever tried.”
“But what… how…”
John reached out to touch one and stopped short, concerned that his fingers - suddenly looking huge and clumsy against all the beauty surrounding him - would snap it like a twig.
Rodney hands twitched in clear anticipation of the lecture they were about to illustrate, with a vibrant energy.
But he started, not with an explanation, but a non sequitur.
“You know, a lot of people have told me things about you, Sheppard. That you’re a soldier, but not just for money - and definitely not for blood - but because you care about what, and who, you’re fighting for. That you can’t pass someone in trouble without wanting to help. That you get yourself hurt, over and over, trying to do what’s right. Well, that one I pretty much knew already, I mean seriously, do you know how much salve I’ve got through, since you ..?
Sorry, sorry, digressing. Bad habit.
Anyway. The point is, that I know you understand that the way the world actually is, the truth of it, is not necessarily what it ought to be. That it’s been built and scripted by people with more power and greed than compassion. And so, one day, I decided to build lies. Lies that are better than truth, that tell of a place in which people never dehumanise other people at their own convenience. Where violence and suffering is not used to control others. Where someone can be exactly who they are meant to be, without penalty.
They don’t work on their own, of course, they need someone very strong and courageous to use them - far more so, though it pains me to admit it, than myself - but, when they’re planted and tended correctly … and, honestly, the number of people who can’t follow the simplest of instructions… right, no, digressing… but, if they’re well looked after, then the lie holds strong and overrides reality entirely. Just for a small area, of course, but… it helps. And, yes, sometimes, after a while, the truth of what actually is crumbles it back down again to nothing. But, other times, more times than you’d think, the lie embeds itself into the world and then it just… becomes the truth.”
John considered the world he’d grown up in, and all the things he’d seen; and he thought that, maybe, he could stand to plant an aspirational lie or two himself.
He found himself drawn to one in particular, a complex, almost snowflake shape, which sparkled like dew, and spoke sweet, impossible promises to him.
“How much for this one?”
Rodney looked affronted.
“Negotiable, Sheppard, means you have to prove you can look after it properly, not that I actually charge for the things. That’s the other reason I keep up the bakery side, it pays for the rest. Well, when I’m not running for my life, at least.”
He softened a little.
“You… you, I trust with any of them.”
John couldn’t help himself. He ducked around a shiny, dashing lie and kissed Rodney full on the lips. And Rodney kissed him right back, arms wrapping around John and holding him close, as he finally allowed himself to believe in a new and better personal reality.
***
Sometimes, these days, John Sheppard serves the world’s best buns, cakes and croissants, to an ever-growing clientele, and makes a coffee that’s even better than Rodney’s (not that Rodney himself would ever openly admit it, however many mugs he gets through in a day). John keeps a very sharp eye out for witch burners; but, mostly, he considers that his most important role is to kiss the blushing baker every morning, and every evening, and as often as possible in between.
And, sometimes, he goes out into the world and plants lies that are better than truth: and he hopes and hopes and hopes that, one day, they won’t be lies any more.