shepcrew: (John Sheppard -- Default)
[personal profile] shepcrew
He had spent the day shopping for the souvenirs on Inara's list. He didn't do too badly, if he said so himself. With the day's mission a success he decided to head back to the Bellagio.

He hadn't been there since the first night, wary of the woman from the blackjack table, but since he hadn't seen hide nor hair of his would-be stalker for the last week or so he figured it would be safe. Besides, none of the other casinos felt right. He suspected their lack of reference to Atlantis, though Caesar's Palace ran a very close second and Mandalay Bay came awfully close to third. There was a level of class that the Bellagio carried and the others didn't quite achieve. He was sure Heightmeyer would tell him it was because he had latched onto the Bellagio with a tenacity befitting a drowning man and his life-raft. Whatever. He wasn't here to be psychoanalyzed by imaginary shrinks.

John walked the gaming floor, observing the excitement - and desperation - that came with winning and losing gobs of money. The bustle of the patrons and the hum of conversations was nearly enough to trick him into thinking it was the main lunch hour on Atlantis and his colleagues were gathered for a short social respite from their duties. He liked it here, but it was almost time for him to go home. He was certain that he'd managed to reconnect with his birth-planet enough to realize that, while he did originate on Earth, his place was on Atlantis and he'd best not do anything more to put her at risk.

John shoved his hands into his pockets and discovered a stray quarter. He paused near an empty slot machine and dropped the coin in, smiling softly as the machine burped that he was a loser. Fair enough. Now he could honestly say he had lost all his money in Vegas and no one would have to know that it was merely what he had brought with him and not his life's savings.

With a final look around, John stored away the sights and sounds in his memory for the times when he was on the verge of doing something stupid; the remembrance would serve to remind him what he was truly putting at risk while instilling within him a sense of protectiveness that he seemed to have lost somewhere along the way. He suspected that damned Cafe with its rules on threats and violence. Yep, he wouldn't be spending too much time there anymore, you could be sure of that.

A scant hour later and he was heading for the exit, a light spring threatening to enter his step due to things being back in alignment for him. His instinct warned him a fraction too late for him to act, as someone grabbed his arm and dragged him down a random hallway. They didn't go very far before he was slammed up against the wall and his lips were assaulted with a rough kiss. He groped blindly, trying to catch hold of his assailant and push them away. As his eyes refocused, he caught the smirking visage of...

"You can call me Trisha, Major Flyboy," the woman whispered seductively.

"Why would I do that?" John said in disgust.

Trisha shrugged her hand dropping to the waistband of his jeans. "I just figured you'd like to know what name to scream when I finish-"

"Hold on there," he said, cutting her off. His fingers closed around her wrist and pulled her hand away from his zipper. His other hand grasped her shoulder and he spun her around, swapping their positions.

"Now that's the spirit," she purred, eyes fluttering shut as she tried to capture him for another kiss.

John held her against the wall at arm's length. "No, no it's not." His couldn't help his irritation from seeping into his voice. "I have no interest in sleeping with you. Hell, I have no interest in you, period."

Trisha pouted, though John doubted her sincerity. "But I want you, Flyboy..."

"That's just too bad for you. Now leave me alone and get the hell out of here," he pushed himself away and gave her a stern, no-nonsense look. She seemed to consider continuing her seduction for a moment, but whatever thoughts had been playing over her face resolved into anger and a small modicum of shame as she hastily drew herself together with indignation.

"Fine. Your loss, Flyboy, not mine," she ground out. She gave him a final, wistful, once-over before huffing and turning on her heel. John found himself once more staring at her retreating form as she melted back into the crowd.

"Whatever excuse helps you move on, sweetheart," he muttered. What crack-pot. Heaving a sigh, he said a silent prayer for the next poor sap she caught in her sights. Making sure his own clothing was put together and pausing by a drinking fountain to wash off whatever lipstick she may have tagged him with, John shook his head and headed back to his hotel to pack.

Atlantis was waiting.

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