Disclaimer: The characters of Stargate: Atlantis and Stargate: SG-1 do no belong to me and no copyright infringemet is intended.

Spoilers: Well, the existence of the show, I guess.

Pairing: Shep/Weir

Rating: T

Author's Note: Yeah, so I'm now addicted to writing this stuff. This was inspired by Vixein in the Sheppard/Weir thread at Gateworld, who (long story short) remarked on werewolves, which sparked a Halloween horror AU discussion. Hope I kept them more or less in character. I'm still fairly new at this, so constructive criticism is appreciated. No beta, so all mistakes are mine.

It was taking all of John Sheppard's willpower not to fidget. He sat in the lobby, watching the comings and goings of White House staff and aides, fisting his hands together to keep from pulling at the sleeves of his uniform.

He hated D.C. at the best of times, and this, the day before the full moon, was hardly the best of times. But when one's Commander-in-Chief requested one's presence, one didn't refuse.

John was idly watching a congressman and staffer trading veiled insults and counting in binary on his fingers when he noticed her. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he felt a prickling all along his skin. Before she had even entered the room, his entire attention was focused on the hallway to his left.

She strode into the lobby a moment later, anger written all over her face. She breezed past the guard, then froze, her eyes flying to his.

John hissed in a breath. Her eyes locked onto his, and he could have sworn he felt an electric shock. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before – a feeling that given just a few moments more, she would know all his darkest secrets and he hers.

Her expression had traded anger for shock, and she took a half step towards him. Before her foot had connected with the floor, however, an aide bumped her side, and she glanced down, breaking their unnerving gaze. Glancing at him sidelong, she slipped her visitor's pass over her head, and before John could blink, was gone.

Okay, he thought, that was different. He didn't have time to dwell, however, before he heard his name and an aide was coming to greet him.

Elizabeth Weir let her anger carry her through the halls of the west wing of the White House. Her feet navigated the familiar path without conscious direction from her brain, her long stride leaving the poor aide designated to guide her scrambling to catch up.

How dare they? How dare they? She knew that her anti-military stance was not particularly appreciated by the current administration, but she had never expected them to laugh at her. They'd practically told her to quit worrying her pretty little head about such matters, to leave important things to the menfolk. They'd questioned her right to even enter the realm of politics.

Ha! She knew for a fact she was better educated than at least three of the men in that room. Her linguistic skills far outstripped all of theirs. Five languages, a PhD, and nearly ten years of experience in Washington didn't earn her the right to be taken seriously?

She'd kept smiling, however, hoping that if she were polite, once she'd left they might actually look at the material she'd compiled. It wasn't until she brought up the effects of violence that she reached the last straw.

"And what would a sweet, proper, young lady like yourself know about violence?" Steve Kerrington had drawled, a patronizing smile ghosting across his lips.

A part of her wanted to grab him by his collar, pin him to the wall, and growl into his face. She knew plenty about violence, more than a suit like Steve could ever imagine. Her primal nature was calling her, and as night approached it was getting more difficult to control it. But she'd never given into that nature willingly, and she wouldn't start now, no matter how much she wanted to put him in his place. So, she gathered her dignity, collected her materials, and left.

As she entered the lobby, a sudden awareness – she would have said a scent, except her senses wouldn't be that acute for another few hours – brought her out of her haze of anger. Her eyes swung unerringly to an Air Force officer sitting in a nearby armchair, fiddling with his cuffs and staring back at her.

The connection was instantaneous and disturbing. She felt stripped bare before him and at the same time as if she had nothing to hide from him. An uncontrollable urge caused her to start towards him, but just then someone jostled her. Their gaze was broken, and Elizabeth was released.

Shaken by the encounter, and still raw from her meeting, she escaped from the lobby as quickly as possible. She was unable to erase the image of the man from her mind, however.

In the suburbs of Virginia, a man in his early to mid forties, greying slightly at the temples, washed his hands in the kitchen sink. Behind him, a couple sat leaning against a blood splattered wall, staring with sightless eyes. The bullet holes in their bodies could not account for the quantity of blood on the floor, however. That had come from their son.

The man at the sink finished scrubbing his hands, and proceeded to rinse the bloody paintbrush. As he did, his gaze shifted leftward, into the living room, where he had left the body of Mr. and Mrs. Durmon's ten-year-old son, Timothy. He frowned. He hated leaving such a mess behind, but he really didn't have the time to clean up properly. Still, it bothered him to have the toothmarks so readily visible.

Finishing with the paintbrush, he placed it in the drainboard, then walked into the living room. He pulled a blanket off the sofa and draped it over Timothy. There, that was better.

Pausing for a moment, he contemplated the symbols painted in blood on the wall above the boy. This demon was one of the nastier breeds, demanding not just a blood sacrifice, but flesh to feed on as well. The man hated calling on it. But its information had been invaluable. At last he knew why his pets had been so worked up the past few days.

Two werewolves! Male and female! He'd known about the one for years, but left her alone. He had no interest in collecting only a partial set. But now...

Now was the time to act.

Smiling slightly, the man left the house, careful to lock the door behind him.