Once, in college (LSU, not the Academy like everyone assumed - and really, where did they get that? John Sheppard was less spit-and-polish than 98.99 percent of people everywhere. Ever.), John had dated a Drama Queen. Capital D. Capital Q.

Her name was Julia, but she insisted on being called Jaz. With one z. Jaz had a high need for comfort. It didn't take much to have her flinging herself through the door of John's crappy apartment and into his arms to moan and wail and sob out her latest heartbreaking disappointment.

Jaz taught John how to hold on, shut up and rub the flat of his hand between heaving shoulder blades until the storm passed. It was also because of Jaz that John always carried a clean, white handkerchief in his back pocket.

John stood in the armory, one eye on the box of ammo he was inventorying and one eye on the figure standing in the first lane of the attached firing range. Rodney's stance was too stiff - his shoulders pulled up nearly to his ears - but he was nailing target after target before pivoting his feet toward the narrow table behind him in a quick, economical motion. After the turn, his broad hands deftly released the spent clip and dropped it onto the table before picking up a replacement and slapping it into place.

Shoot. Pivot. Drop. Slap.

Finally, after a dozen clips, the range went silent except for the harsh sounds of Rodney's panting breaths. John set his clipboard aside and crossed the floor, his threadbare white handkerchief - quite possibly the only one in the Pegasus galaxy - already in his hand.