Rodney really wanted to hum "Dueling Banjos," but even he knew that would be a tactical error, so he stood back and looked up. The nearly five-hour drive from the Atlanta airport to this place had been like traveling backward through time, and not just because John had managed to coax a steady 85-95 mph out of the rental Honda - fast enough on the semi-crappy roads of central and south Georgia to make Rodney cling to the "oh, shit!" handle until he finally just gave up any lingering hopes of survival and let the steady whip-whip-whip of passing telephone poles lull him into a fugue state.

Sheppard had driven them down through the state of Georgia on a sharp diagonal, pointing the car pretty much directly at Florida for several hours before taking a sharp left and driving on until they came to a waterfront.

"Atlantic?" Rodney asked, his voice a little hoarse. There hadn't been a lot of conversation in the car.

"St. Marys River," John said, then parked and levered himself out of the car, walking up to look across the narrow street to the water.

Rodney stepped out, too, taking time to stretch his cramped back and take in the docks and moorings of the small commercial-looking waterfront. "Smells like fish," he said.

At that, John turned and smiled at him, a half-grin and an eyebrow cocked over the top edge of his sunglasses. "Yeah," he said. "Fish happens. I'd get you rock shrimp for dinner, but we're too early for the season."

"I suppose I'll live," Rodney said. "They probably put lemon on it anyway."

John grunted and gestured at the water. "There's an island over there with wild horses."

Rodney looked, but could only see indistinct shapes in the distance, hazy on the horizon. He stayed back by the car. Even after the flight from Colorado to Atlanta and the long drive, he wasn't quite sure why he was there. The Sheppard Effect, he supposed. John had come to him and said, "There's something I need to do - you busy?" and Rodney'd found himself packing a bag and following.

To his surprise, it was easy. He'd been following John for quite some time.

John walked back over to the car, smiling at Rodney across the roof. "Come on," he said.

Rodney grumbled, but got back into the car. John pulled back out onto the main street, then made a couple of turns on tiny roads, pointing the car into a stand of tremendous oak trees, so heavy with Spanish moss that the late spring sunshine could only push through in uneven dapples. John pulled the car off the road and parked. He leaned across Rodney and opened the glove box, taking out a model plane. Rodney recognized it as the fighter John had kept from those terrible six weeks when they'd been exiled from Atlantis. Even after three long years, the thought of those six weeks could still make Rodney's breath catch in his throat.

As he straightened, John stopped and leaned the side of his head against Rodney's shoulder for a bare half-second, just a brush of stillness in the strangely heavy half-light of the forest. Rodney dipped his head quickly enough to catch the scratch of John's hair against his lips.

Outside the car, John led the way through the trees. The ground was slightly spongy, not wet, just soft and giving under their feet. The oak trees rose up all around them, and the filtered light seemed to hold the sounds down, lending a gentle hush to everything. As they approached an old stone fence with an iron gate set into it, John dropped back and cupped Rodney's elbow.

"Come on," he said, ushering Rodney through.

Into a cemetery.

"Oh," Rodney said, looking around at the weathered headstones set into haphazard rows. Many of the stones were light-colored, with streaks of black and rust showing their age. Some had plaques attached, and others were simply carved. Here and there were freestanding angels or crosses, double headstones that looked like the headboard of his parents' bed. Some of the plots were outlined with bricks and filled with gravel, others overgrown with vines and weeds.

John's hand stayed on his elbow, and Rodney walked along, his eyes moving from one marker to the next, cataloguing names and dates automatically. They stopped somewhere in the middle, near a group of plots laid in the shade of an ancient oak, dripping with moss, and John stopped and crouched down, leaning to pull a handful of weeds from the base of a white marble monument. Without conscious thought, Rodney laid a steadying hand on John's shoulder and read the words on the stone - Carol Addison Sheppard, 1945-2001, beloved daughter, wife and mother.

"Did you live here?" he heard himself ask, his words just as hushed as the boneyard.

"No," John said, piling the weeds he pulled to one side. "My grandparents did - they're over there." He gestured to one of the double headstones nearby. "I came here sometimes in the summer."

"Why's she here?" Rodney asked, "Not with your dad?"

"Dad's at Arlington," John answered softly. "And they were divorced. She wanted to be here."

"Oh, okay," Rodney said. He watched John smooth one big hand over the stone and thought about what that hand felt like on his body, on the back of his head. When John looked up, squinting in a small shaft of sunlight, Rodney raised his hand from his shoulder and touched the side of his face.

"I'm never coming back here," John said, shifting so that the sun wasn't in his eyes anymore, so he could look at Rodney with that steady green gaze that always saw right into his heart. "Earth, I mean. Before we came, I made O'Neill get approval for me to retire off-world, if it comes to that."

"Oh, okay," Rodney repeated. He watched as John set the model plane down at the base of his mother's grave. John looked at it silently, then stood. He turned and looked at his grandparents' grave for a second, then nodded decisively.

"How do you feel about Stockholm?" Rodney asked, with a small smile. "As long as I promise to take you home after?"

John blinked at that. "This year?"

"Nah," Rodney said. "But...eventually."

"Okay," John said, his mouth curving up into the smile that made his eyes crinkle and showed his teeth. "As long as you promise to take me home."

Rodney smiled back, and they both turned toward the sound of a flock of seagulls climbing raucously into the sky over the graveyard, no doubt heralding the return of the fishing fleet. Rodney shielded his eyes with one hand and watched the white birds wheel against the blue, each always knowing where its fellows were located, endlessly correcting their courses and flying together in an intricate dance. He felt the warmth of John's hand against the small of his back attaching him to the world, to his place.

"Come on," John said, his body a warm shadow at Rodney's back. "I'll buy you dinner."