Summary:  A conscience is a hard thing to silence sometimes. But then, sometimes it's all about perspectives.
Notes: SGA/SG-1 Crossover, as it features Cam Mitchell. This one I did for the Drunken / Alcohol challenge on SGA Flashfic. Spoilers for Miller's Crossing.  FOR THE RECORD: Bourbon, to be called as such, has to be made in the USA, from at least 51% corn and aged in new, charred barrels. Otherwise, it's Whiskey. Kentucky Bourbon has to be distilled and aged in KY for at least a year and a day to be called as such but regular bourbon can be made anywhere in the USA.

My trusty Nameless Beta Went through it so it's a bit different than what I posted on SGA Flashfic

Proxy

 

He picked up the shot glass and sipped the dark amber liquid, feeling it burn his mouth and throat as it went down, but damn, it was good. He chuckled darkly, not for the first time. No wonder his father had liked it so much. And to think he’d sworn never to drink the stuff, for that very reason. Now… Now he was just like the old man, hooked on it. He’d hated it, before. That was another lifetime ago.

 

Not that it would be his first choice of drink, though. Not usually, anyway. He was a hardcore beer drinker, much more so than most realised. Well, most on Atlantis, anyway, other than Ronon or McKay. Besides, that too was a lifetime ago, when he spent time in places with lots of sand, fighting a dirty war and losing too many good friends. Before he’d tried to do the right thing and failed, before he had an entire expedition to protect, before all the responsibilities, before he’d known what they meant by the burden of command. 

 

On days like this, however, Bourbon was his drink of choice. It got the job done faster and it fit his mood; dark and dangerous. He lifted the glass and drank again. He was kinda glad the barman had gotten the hint about his intent and left the bottle on the bar in front of him. It avoided constantly having to catch his attention and the clutter of empty glasses in front of him. He extended a slow hand towards the bottle and refilled his glass to the rim, a few drops of amber spilling over the side. He was really starting to feel the alcohol running in his blood, dulling the sharp edges of his senses.

 

He saw a flash of movement out the corner of his eye as someone sat on the stool next to him. Seeing a flash of Air Force blue, he resisted the urge to bristle at the intrusion into his personal space, or what he perceived as such.

 

“Sheppard.”

 

It wasn’t a question, merely a greeting.

 

“Mitchell,” he answered, glancing sideways only long enough to confirm he’d identified him correctly.

 

He kept his eyes on the glass in front of him as Mitchell signalled to the bartender. The bottle on the bar disappeared briefly from his view before being deposited back in place. Mitchell hissed and slapped his glass hard on the bar.

 

“Mmmmm. Good stuff. Reminds me of home.”

 

“Hate it. Same reason.”

 

“Then why are you drinking it?”

 

“’Cause I like it.”

 

“You just said-”

 

“Hate that I like it. Old man was right.”

 

“Ooo-kay. That makes about as much sense as a purple monkey. Are you drunk already?”

 

“Yeah. And… Aren’t you from Kansas?”

 

“Yeah, so?” Mitchell sounded confused.

 

“This is Kentucky Bourbon,” he explained, puzzled. It was obvious, wasn’t it?

 

“Maybe so but Kentucky ain’t the only place they make Bourbon, or sell it, for that matter.”

 

“Huh. Right.”

 

Silence stretched for a bit as they drank, Mitchell refilling both glasses.

 

“Landry sent you to find me?” Sheppard asked eventually, slurring his words a little. He’d already lost count of how many shots he’d drained, and with Mitchell refilling the glass each time he drained it, he wasn’t catching up any time soon. That was fine by him.

 

“Nah. Figured you could use a friend. Or a designated driver.”

 

“Hmm.” Sheppard lifted his glass. “Cheers.” He tossed back the glass and swallowed, grimacing a little. He hadn’t spent enough time with him to really call Mitchell a friend but shared experiences went a long way towards understanding, especially in their unique line of work.

 

“McKay’s taken his sister home.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“She’s perfectly fine.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Look, Sheppard… You did the right thing, okay?”

 

Sheppard turned, narrowing his eyes at Mitchell. “I didn’t do anything, Mitchell.”

 

“Y…eah,” Mitchell said slowly. “And I’m Santa Claus.”

 

Sheppard kept silent, refilling his glass once, twice, a third time. That Mitchell had figured it out wasn’t a surprise. Hell, all of the SGC probably knew exactly what had happened. He’d signed the log to visit Wallace’s cell, had taken him to the lab. He’d done what he had to. It was as simple as that. And yet, it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

 

It had been so easy.

 

He refilled his glass and rubbed a weary hand over his forehead, fighting off a tension headache. He sipped the bourbon more carefully this time, thankful for Mitchell’s silence.

 

Ronon might not have been able to put aside his hatred of the Wraith even to save Jeannie, but if he had, he would simply have tossed Wallace to the Wraith. No second thoughts. No guilt. That was possibly part of the reason Mitchell was the one sitting beside him and not the Satedan.

 

It wasn’t John’s style, though. No. His was much darker than that. Better to make the man think to do it himself. It saved a lot of explanations. John chuckled, earning himself a curious look from Mitchell. He ignored it. He envied Ronon’s naiveté sometimes, his simple sense of right and wrong. It was so much easier on the conscience to see things in black and white. But Sheppard had lived too long in shades of grey to be able to see the world like that anymore.

 

Ronon kept ragging on him about his hand to hand skills, or lack thereof. Or rather perceived lack thereof. If he only knew...

 

No one did know just how dark John Sheppard’s soul truly was—or more accurately very few and certainly none in Atlantis. Even Elizabeth hadn’t known the full extent of his service record, he suspected. The Stargate program was as secret as they came but that didn’t mean the Air Force didn’t keep some other secrets: like how a black ops pilot had learned to be so lethal against enemy ground forces, how to infiltrate, evade, gather intelligence in any way, shape, form or means possible and necessary. Black ops pilots were one thing, but him…

 

Ronon thought he lacked skill at hand-to-hand combat. And maybe he did, at least when it came to the Satedan form, or Athosian stick fighting. He wasn’t very good a throwing knives either—but Ronon had no clue just how good he could be with a knife, if he really had to, or how well he could do with a long range rifle and some time. Or what he could do with his bare hands, his words and a few photographs. Ronon didn’t know about the siege, about the trail of dead Genii he’d left behind. Or maybe he did know the basics, but no one knew how, because even the AAR didn’t tell it. It just said how many and where.

 

No one knew just how much blood was on his hands. No one knew how completely cold-blooded he could be if the justification was good and strong enough. That left a bitter taste in his mouth. He rose the glass to his lips and drank deeply, trying to wash that taste back, all the while knowing no amount of alcohol ever could. It didn’t stop him from trying.

 

This, however, was the first time he’d reached into that corner of his soul to save just one person, and the thought he actually could made him sick with self-loathing. He tried to tell himself he’d done it for the greater good, that shutting down those nanites was a stepping stone in accomplishing a larger goal: saving thousands of lives, human lives. And for that, the Wraith had to live. For that, a human had to die. He filled the glass to the rim this time. It was empty in a single gulp.

 

He’d decided who. He’d provided the why and the how. He’d provided means, motive and opportunity. The result was premeditated, cold-blooded murder by proxy of a Wraith.

 

The worst thing was, it wasn’t the first time.

 

He closed his eyes and let his head fall on his crossed arms.

 

“Yo, Sheppard, still with me?” Mitchell asked eventually.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, lifting his head and reaching for the bottle again. Mitchell caught his wrist.

 

“Haven’t you had enough?”

 

Sheppard twisted his arm free and took the bottle. “No. Not till I stop… remembering I just committed murder by proxy,” he ground out, bitterness making his voice rough.

 

Mitchell sighed and rose off his stool. “Okay. We are not having this conversation here. Come on.”

 

Sheppard grunted, fishing some bills out of his wallet and throwing them on the bar.  “Fine,” he grumbled, sliding off the stool to his feet. The room swayed suddenly to the right and a firm hand grabbed his arm, steadying him.

 

“Whoa there, cowboy. Easy does it.”

 

He took a breath, waiting for the room to still. When it did, he shrugged off Mitchell’s hand and headed towards the back.

 

“Hey Sheppard. Exit’s thataway,” Mitchell called behind him.

 

“I gotta take a piss,” he called over his shoulder. He knew Mitchell was right. He’d had enough. More than enough. That didn’t mean he was ready to quit. He was still vibrating with fear-induced adrenaline, tons of what he hoped was misplaced guilt and something far darker he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge or even name.  

 

Mitchell was waiting for him when he came back out of the men’s room, a hand outstretched. “Keys,” he said, eyebrows raised, daring him to disagree.

 

He sighed long and deep as he patted his pockets for the keys to his rental. Finally finding them inside his jacket, he swore as the keys slipped out of his grasp and tumbled to the floor. He picked them up with an annoyed grunt, stumbling into the nearest table, spilling a pitcher of beer.

 

“Watch it, moron!”

 

“Sorry, big buy,” Sheppard replied thickly to the man suddenly in his face, sour beer breath washing over his forehead. “This’ll buy you some more,” he growled, throwing some bills on the table to soak in the spilled beer.

 

A bit to his disappointment, the ox-sized man grunted and let him pass. He shoved his eyes closed, both to quell his desire to hit the guy out of pure spite and to stave off the alcohol-induced dizziness. He stumbled again and found himself face-first into the ample bosom of Ox-man’s lady friend. He chuckled and smiled owlishly. She was pretty, he thought, in a cheap make-up and biker-chick get up kind of way.

 

He smiled cockily. “Sorry ma’am- ”

 

The rest of his apology was forgotten when he was hauled backward by his jacket collar and once again face to face with Ox-man, a meaty hand holding a handful of his t-shirt and jacket just under his chin.

 

“You’re really starting to irritate me,” the man growled. 

 

John inhaled slowly. The bar was completely silent, except for the country twang coming from the jukebox.

 

“Let. Go,” Sheppard snarled.

 

“Sheppard?”

 

Ox smiled darkly. “Make me.”

 

“Sheppard!”

 

He shoved his knee in the man’s groin and grabbed the wrist that held him with both hands, twisting outward, one hand bending the thumb back as far as he could while pushing the wrist toward the elbow with the other. As Ox began to twist to the side to avoid the pain, he reversed his grip, wrenching the arm behind the man’s back, bringing his boot to connect solidly behind the knee. In an instant, Ox was down, right arm pinned behind his back. Sheppard leaned his weight into the man and brought his right hand around Ox’s neck, flicking his wrist to reveal a switchblade. He pressed the sharp steel lightly across the pulse point, his chin hovering by the man’s ear.

 

“Now, I’m going to walk out of here. You’re going to sit back down and stay there. My apologies to your lady. Take my advice, pal. Don’t mess with me. Clear?” he hissed.

 

He felt Ox’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. Then, a slow nod. “Yeah.”

 

“Good,” Sheppard spat. He shoved Ox to the floor and stood, closing the switchblade and placing it back in his pocket before walking out of the bar without looking over his shoulder. He stopped in the middle of the parking lot, heart pounding in his chest, stomach churning.

 

“Neat trick with the knife, there Sheppard. Only here on Earth, it’ll get you arrested. Still, impressive,” Mitchell drawled behind him.

 

“Ronon’ll show you,” he grumbled, leaning forward, hands on his knees.

 

“You gonna hurl?”

 

“Maybe.” He spat on the ground. “Yeah.”

 

When he was finally done, Mitchell offered him a napkin, smiling crookedly. “You good?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good, because you are not puking in my car. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

 

He nodded and followed Mitchell, stumbling and tripping over his own feet until Mitchell dragged his arm over his shoulder.

 

“Nice ride,” Sheppard said appreciatively when he was dumped in the passenger seat of Mitchell’s black ’64 Mustang. He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. What a fucking mess this was.

 

Mitchell was saying something to him. He ignored it. It got him a poke on the arm and a pat on the cheek.

 

“I am not dragging your ass all the way up there. Wake up, Sheppard.”

 

A face danced behind his closed lids, aging in seconds, turning into dust, the eyes of the killer locked on his, a mixture of gratitude and smug satisfaction.

 

“I killed him,” he said. “I…”

 

He felt himself being dragged out of the car, the cold night air washing over his face.

 

“Who ever said In Vino Veritas was an ass,” Mitchell said, leading him up a flight of stairs. The threads of reality began to unravel in his mind one by one until there was nothing left.

 

 

**********************

 

 

He woke with a start, lost and disoriented. He blinked a few times, trying to bring the room into focus, but what he saw didn't really help him: some bedroom he'd never seen before. A high school picture on the opposite wall jogged his memory, albeit only a little. A young, smiling Cameron Mitchell posed for the official football team photo. Right… Mitchell had come and gotten him out of the bar and to his place. Why, though, he had no clue. The rest of the night was lost in a haze of alcohol. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and hair. He dragged his head off the pillow and stopped suddenly, grunting in pain. He let his head drop back to the pillow and swallowed a few times, willing his stomach to calm. Hangovers sucked.

 

McKay would no doubt make endless fun of –

 

McKay.

 

Wallace. The Wraith. It all came rushing back in an instant, hitting him like a gut punch.

 

He rose off the bed, the pounding in his head growing tenfold. Swallowing thickly, he headed into the bathroom he somehow knew was down the hall. He leaned over the sink, avoiding his reflection. He felt sick, and suspected it wasn’t because of the booze. He turned the faucet on, splashing some cold water over his face.

 

He'd made a man kill himself. He'd almost killed a guy just because he’d wanted to, because he was pissed off at himself. He lifted his eyes and stared into the mirror. Haunted eyes he didn't recognize looked back.

 

He closed them, trying to bring his body back under control. He dropped his head back down, leaving his forearms on the edges of the sink, breathing hard.

 

“This is your fault. You know how to fix this.”

 

“I never meant for any of this to happen.”

 

“That's what the report is going to say.”

 

“Make me.”

 

“Oh, god…” His breath hitched in his throat. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't like this. And yet… He'd made Wallace kill himself. He hadn't even blinked. Good god… He'd almost enjoyed it. He held in his hands the power to take lives, to kill men, to make them think it was their own idea. And part of him... Part of him wanted to do it again, to feel that power again.

 

“No!” he yelled, despite the horrendous headache and nausea. “No,” he whispered. “I’m not…”

 

He screwed his eyes shut and vomited up Bourbon and bile, self-loathing, disgust, revulsion, hatred and fear. What kind of sick bastard enjoyed the thrill of taking a life, of making a man commit suicide?

 

He lifted his head and stared at his reflection, looked at the monster in the mirror, a monster that had convinced a man to commit suicide, to feed himself to a creature of nightmare. He saw the mirror shatter and fall into a million pieces into the sink even before registering having hit it.

 

“Sheppard!” Mitchell called, skidding to a halt in front of the open bathroom door. “Nice,” he commented, his gaze sweeping the mess of broken glass. “You okay?”

 

He shook his head slowly, watching blood drip off his hand into the shards in the sink. “No,” he said quietly. “Dammit.”

 

 He picked out a sliver of glass from his knuckle, wincing at the sting. He rinsed his hand, shut the water off and wrapped it in a cloth Mitchell offered.

 

“I’ll put some coffee on.”

 

He nodded and closed the door, leaning back on it, breathing slowly, getting himself back under control. As soon as he felt capable, he carefully pushed off the door and started the shower. He stepped under the blistering hot spray, letting it wash away the blood, sweat and vomit off his body. When the water ran cold, when he’d stopped feeling again, he shut the water off and re-wrapped the small towel around his still bleeding hand. He dried off, wandered back to the bedroom and dressed. He walked to the window and leaned on the sill, eyes lost over the mountains.

 

“Here.”

 

He accepted the mug of steaming coffee from Mitchell, nodding his thanks. “I’ll pay for the damages,” he said, before taking a sip.

 

“Don’t worry about it. But I’ll still need your credit card number.”

 

Sheppard snorted humourlessly, eyes on the black coffee in his hand yet not seeing it.

 

“It was easy,” he said after a beat. “I just… showed him some pictures, Jeannie’s husband, her daughter… And then… I told him he knew what to do.”

 

“And so he did. Heroic, isn’t it?”

 

A frown creased Sheppard’s brow and he lifted his head to stare at Mitchell, uncomprehending. “What?”

 

“Wallace. Made himself a hero. Saved the day. Sacrificed himself for the greater good. Amazing, isn’t it?”

 

Sheppard felt anger rising through him. “I guilted him into that. I made him do this. I murdered that man!”

 

Mitchell leaned against the bathroom door, a smug, ironic smile on his lips. “Well, look at you, all powerful master of destiny. Aren’t you just full of yourself.” The tone wasn’t biting, not really. It held more disbelief and amusement than anything else, and it was confusing the hell out of him.

 

“What?”

 

“Unless you willfully drugged the man, brainwashed him or threw him to the Wraith yourself, you didn’t take away his free will. You didn’t make him do anything but the right thing, the same thing you and I would have done had the situation been reversed. Hell, we’ve both done it.”

 

“What you did was different.”

 

“No, it wasn’t. I did what I had to do. So did you, and so did Wallace. You just laid it out for him. The decision he made from then on was his and his alone. Unless you mean to tell me you held him for the Wraith to feed on?”

 

Sheppard glared at him, not needing to answer. “I just…” He stayed silent for a bit, chin to his chest. “Doesn’t make it any easier to bear.”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s what separates us from them, I guess. Hell, I’d be more worried if you were fine with it.”

 

He chuckled. Yeah. A monster wouldn’t lose sleep over this. Still, it was a hell of a way to make a point. Sheppard shrugged, suddenly a lot more okay about the events of the past day. Perspective was everything, he guessed. He’d… presented Wallace a… situation. The rest had been out of his hands. He’d just… presented a situation.

 

It was that simple. It was that hard.

 

He’d live with it.

 

 

Fin.