   In the Cookies Of Life   von <span style='color: gray;'>abgemeldet</span>
                             (Stargate: Atlantis)
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                                  Kapitel 1: 
                                  -----------


IN THE COOKIES OF LIFE


--- In the Cookies of Life, Friends are the Chocolate Chips


Someone had taken his watch. 

That had been the first thing Rodney McKay had been aware off upon waking up in
what later turned out to be a cell. Dungeon, torture chamber, whatever. All
he’d remembered from before was an unnatural green mist, coughing up a lung,
or two and then darkness and pain and nothing and--and Sheppard. When he’d
first opened his eyes, he’d thought he’d lost his glasses. Problem was he
didn’t own any glasses, right? Exactly. Still, with everything so damn blurry,
one had to wonder.

And wrestle with the first panic attack of the day. 

That first horrible realization had been followed by yet another horrible
realization--and come on, weren’t they all? Not only had his watch gone MIA,
not to mention his flawless eyesight, the colonel had as well, and wow, the
silence around him had been even more devastating upon that realization. It’s
crazy how much he’d come to rely on the man’s completely unwarranted
optimism in times like this. Not that he’d ever admit as much to Sheppard,
bastard’s cocky enough as it is, but hmm, who cares. Right then, all he had
been thinking--all he could think--was that the man wasn’t here, damn it. And
who did he think he was just disappearing like that?! 

Again? 

Apparently not doing his job. Rodney had been sure of that. Wasn’t it to
protect the scientists? Namely, him? Okay, and Atlantis, too, but they came as a
package deal, anyway, the scientists and the Ancients’ long lost city. As did
Atlantis and Sheppard. The latter, however, was required to be here. To protect
Rodney, even if it was from himself. Oh, for Christ’s sake, who the hell had
he been trying to kid? His brilliant brain was going to die a slow, horrible,
pointless death in here, starving to death of oxygen and rot away. 

And my, had it taken him a great deal longer to recover from that freak out. 

Sue him, but for all eternity--an eternity he would not be part of--he’d go on
and blame it on that that it had taken him so long to gather his bearings. And
the not-working eyes, never to forget that! What he had first thought to be the
hard, ruthless floor he was lying on, well, it turned out it was not. No. Upon
smacking his head on it, he’d discovered that it was, indeed, a bed. Granted,
given how much his back hurt, it might as well have been the floor. Why didn’t
hostile--or otherwise--residents of alien worlds ever considered people with a
bad back? No, really. Is it so hard to provide your guests--or hostages--with
somewhat comfortable sleeping accommodations if you locked them up in a hellhole
like this anyway? 

And oh yeah, how about, oh, a real blanket? Not something that even the US
military would frown upon?

Apparently, yes, yes it is. Too hard and not possible. 

Ranting and panic attacks and almost suffocating himself aside, at the least his
eyes had been on the right path about then, getting less blurry with the passing
minute. If one bothered to count. And Rodney had. What? Numbers are calming, and
it had come to him at one point that, hey! Staying calm might not be a bad idea.
Not in the light of the situation. So he had gone to catalog vital details
he’d missed before. Like his physical condition. Wriggling toes and fingers
had worked just fine, moving arms and legs, well, not so fine, but he had put
that down as a consequence to being unconscious for an unknown amount of time.
The being drugged part of the ordeal. Same with moving his head. 

And of course, his miserably-lacking eyesight.

From what he had been able to tell, at least he wasn’t in eminent danger of
bleeding to death. 

Which, of course, left the door of internal bleeding, poison, a head injury, and
God knows what still so damn wide open that it had left him gaping. Hmm. That
said, hypoglycemia would probably get him first, if--and that’s a big
if--there was no other--no, no, no. Not going there, not going there, and he
wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Clear blue skies, he had thought. Wide open space,
damn it! You didn’t want to panic anymore, remember? Yes, yes he had
remembered the taste of blood from a bitten lip--the lone fact that had kept him
from another panic attack and therefore from going insane, which hey, small
price to pay. 

Unless the cut would get infected, in which case it would fall off, and oh for
the love of! It hadn’t been working, the keep-calm mantra playing on an
infinite loop in his head. For the longest time he’d just stayed lying down,
heart hammering in his chest, hand hovering a little shaky in front of his eyes
ever so often, waiting. 

He’d been counting for five hundred and forty-seven seconds before he’d
dared to move more than a few muscles at a time. 

In the meantime, his eyes had gone from totally-and-completely-fucked-up blurry
to absolutely blurry to
hey-I-can-make-out-something-and-hey!-it’s-my-hand-I-think blurry. So he’d
slowly, carefully, very wide-eyed pushed himself up on his elbows, looking
around. Nothing had moved and jumped on him, trying to kill him that first three
seconds, so he’d gone one step further--to sit up--complete with his back
against the wall to prop him up, legs stretched out, and his feet dangling over
the edge. Once the fit of dizziness had kindly left him alone, blood no longer
rushing like Niagara in his ears, he tried to listen. 

Problem had been there was nothing to listen to. Either the place was one
hundred percent sound proof or one hundred percent deserted. But someone had
locked him in here, had attacked them with the, the green mist, meaning there
had to be people around. He doubted he’d wanted to meet them, though. Not
really. 

Hours had gone by. Or minutes that had felt like hours. Of waiting, of being
afraid, of ranting, of complaining; had Rodney living constantly on the verge of
the next panic attack. The whole place had been remarkable unremarkable: floor a
dull shade of grey, the walls just as dull, only brown and not a blend of black
and white. Not that this trivial information would accomplish anything useful,
oh no. What it had meant, however, was that his eyes were getting toward better
at a snail’s pace. 

One astounding thing he’d discovered during those horrendously long, long
minutes, hours, days, had been that he had even less patience for waiting than
he had for his brainless minions and other human beings and their
abysmally-moronic questions. Which is a tad disastrous and disturbingly
worrying, since his patience for the former is already exactly zero. Zip. Zilch.
Nonexistent. Which would plunk the figures here in the negatives. Even worse,
since it did nothing to snap at the crawling time as it did with his staff. He
had tried.

And oh God, he’d never admit to it, but he’d missed the colonel for that
precise reason. Sheppard snapping, “Shut up, McKay” and “No, you’re not
going to die in here, and for Christ’s sake, calm down already” gave him the
option to snap back, to distract him. It hadn’t helped one bit to yell at
himself, either. Christ, he’d tried that, too. He really, really had. 

And while he had been on the topic of stupid MIA colonels, where the hell were
Teyla and Ronon? Hmm? Where was everyone when for once you actually needed them?
He is a genius, not a miracle worker, also, huh. His work is bordering on the
latter more times than not, if he may be so bold and say so himself. But how was
he supposed to get out of here by himself? With nothing on his hands to work
miracles with?! He had forced his eyes closed at one point, knowing that
something would happen sooner or later--knowing the drill, it would be sooner
rather than later--and that he’d better be ready for it.

Honestly, he had not planned on falling asleep. No really. He hadn’t. Stupid
Pegasus Galaxy. It had happened anyway.


***

Arms and legs flailing, almost hurling himself off the bed, Rodney jerks back to
awareness when a door opens and someone throws something inside. Said something
hits the floor with a dull thump and a low groan. Rodney presses his back closer
to the wall. Oh, not good. So not good. The door squeals shut, leaving Rodney
wincing and alone with a groaning something and the silence following in its
wake. That something, he notices as soon as he calms down enough to squint at
it--hard--is possibly, maybe, apparently a human being--probably--and, the
scientist thinks, no other than John Sheppard. 

Usually? This would be enough to have relief wash through him, trickling out of
him in endless strings of words and complaints. Usually the colonel would be
moving and asking questions, too. He isn’t and he doesn’t. Just... lies
there, all crumbled and silent and still as a sack of potatoes. Rodney’s heart
skips a beat. “Colonel?” If his voice screeches exactly like the door had,
well, there’s no one to point it out to him, is there?

Blinking rapidly, willing his eyes to start working again, he ponders moving
from his relatively safe spot up here on the bed to over there. It’s a long
way to ‘over there,’ with an almost endless sequence of possibilities that
could and probably will go wrong. Conversely, he’s reasonably sure there’s
nothing in the room but them. Creepy alien beings had had all the time in the
world--well, not that much, but hmm--to come out of their creepy alien lairs and
do their creepy alien things. Hence, try to eat him. Oh yes. Been there, done
that, never bought the shirt.

Not happening here, is what the rational part of his brain tells him. The
panic-riddled other half of said brilliant brain, however, disagrees
outrageously. In fact, it’s screeching in his ear that it’s not safe to
move, and don’t you dare go down there, for Christ’s sake, just wait till he
wakes up! 

What if he doesn’t? the rational part argues back, to which the other end
replies with silence and a pout--not that he thinks brain cells can pout, but
again, he never thought hair could deprive the laws of gravity either--a low,
dismal whimper. Or wait, that’s possibly Rodney himself, and uh, yes. He snaps
his mouth shut, almost taking his tongue off. So. What to do? Feeble eyes study
his hands cradled in his lap. The Sheppard-shaped lump on the floor. Ultimately,
it’s no contest at all. Okay, then. Slow and careful. He can do that. 

Planting one hand flat on the rough stone to his right, he pushes himself to his
knees, climbs awkwardly from the torture plank that disguises itself as a bed
until he’s leaning on hands and knees on the hard floor. And hard it is.
Christ, his poor, unprotected knees can tell a thing or two about that. Ow! He
loudly curses the entire forest-loving, green-thumb-possessing, pathetic
population of a godforsaken, wildlife, jam-packed little world for reducing him
to this. Who knows what kind of filth is living down here for the last few
years? No, make that decades, maybe centuries. Strange enough, his need to not
break his neck walking upright and falling down has his fear of that cowering in
a dark corner. 

Carson has antibiotics and whatever, the good drugs, but a broken neck will stay
a broken neck no matter what.

That is more Sheppard’s domain anyway.

Sheppard. Right.

Crawling onward, the almost Sheppard-shaped heap turns into a definitely
Sheppard-shaped heap, floppily curled on itself and side. And why does he look
so--brown? He didn’t spend the last few hours asleep in a puddle of mud or
what, did he? Mind you, impossible is certainly nothing. Grimacing at the
thought, because yikes, what a mess that will make on the sheets and the floor
and--Rodney lets out a strangled cry, flopping unceremoniously on his ass and
back and--ow, ow, ow!--grabbing his knee. Of course there’s a fucking pump in
the ground. And of course it’s right there where he crawls. Yes. Of course.
It’s them after all, isn’t it? 

He and Sheppard. Cursing the very existence of this place and its mention in the
Atlantean database, he crawls on, limping, and oh yes, you can so limp while you
crawl! 

No, really. You can. Just ask him.

And people call him selfish, while clearly this is an incredibly unselfish act
since--ow, ow, OW! damn it--so dying, here. Reaching for the still-motionless
lump of human flesh and bones--more bones than flesh, geez--he gets the shock of
his already way too-adventurous life when his hand accidentally smacks right
into a hard shoulder. No, not the smacking thing, he’s not that much of a
wimp. But the brown stuff on Sheppard? Not mud. Not even clothes.

The man doesn’t have the clothes to get mud on them. 

A quick sweep of hands confirms that, yes, definitely skin there. No fabric to
speak of. A little hysterical, he thanks the gods, or whoever is taking
responsibility for the man’s unconscious state. Else he’d be sprouting the
mark of a pissed off, Sheppard sized fist somewhere on his face or an equally
unpleasant spot right about now for feeling him up. But... but... for Christ’s
sake, how did he manage to lose his clothes? How do you lose pants and a vest,
socks and shoes, your god damn shirt? Not figuratively, obviously. Rodney is
very well aware of how that happens, but literally and to--oh, no.

No way. They... wouldn’t strip him. Rodney frowns. Would they? Why would they
strip Sheppard? And not Rodney?

Wait. No. No need to dwell on questions like that right away. There are more
pressing matters at hand. Getting him off the floor. That, for example, is the
answer to one of said pressing matters: what to do with the colonel? The torture
plank is the answer to the ‘get him where?’ follow-up question. That leaves
the ‘how,’ and for once Rodney’s is at a loss. Looking back and forth
between his CO and the blurry shape that passes off as The Bed way over there...
He may not be able to drag the man over the floor, not while he’s naked, and
carrying was, for obvious reasons, out of the picture, too, but. 

All things considered--namely, Rodney’s back--it’s not like the bed will do
wonders for the man’s health, so maybe this will work for now. It should work.
Okay. Mission Blankets For Sheppard under way. By the time he’s back at
Sheppard’s side, there’s no way his knees are not ruined for the rest of his
life, as short as it may be. Bravely ignoring the agony, the rough excuse for a
blanket is soon spread out on the floor, ready and fixed up for him to roll
Sheppard on top of it. Slowly, carefully getting to work until the man’s
securely lying on his back. Breathing hard, he catches a glance at the
soldier’s dog tags gleaming in the overhead light out of the corner of his
eyes.

Once the scientist is no longer feeling like he’s run a marathon--which,
pardon?, he never would, ‘cause, hello? Smart. Well, okay, he might, if, if
there were people with pitchforks and guns involved--he goes back to further
arranging the unconscious figure on its side. Just in case he’s going to choke
on--something. “Be a good colonel and don’t throw up over this nice scruffy
blanket the polite kidnappers gave us,” he tells his silent companion,
flipping the other side over his naked form. Make him... less naked. 

Rodney has no qualms of using the pillow for himself, though. Not when he
selflessly stays close while he could go back to the bed.
 
He spends the time waiting for the colonel to wake up exploring their new home.


‘Home’--and he uses the word and meaning very loosely--turns out to be a
room of perhaps three by four meters wide and a ceiling at least twice as high,
floor to ceiling and all around enclosed by walls of solid rock. The scrapes on
his hands can attest to that theory. The only thing breaking the monotony of
gray and brown is the cot in the back with its red and purple sheets and covers
and the door in the front, which is a light silver, scratched up metal.
Absurdly, the thing looks more solid than the walls ever could. 

There’s another ‘door’ on the right, which isn’t all that accurate and
not at all a door. More a break in the wall. An artificial alcove. Imagine his
surprise when the alcove turns out to be the smallest bathroom known to mankind.
If anyone would call it that at all. 

The alcove is maybe one and a half meters deep and houses exactly four things: a
very crude version of a toilet, a tiny, beat up sink, a large white bowl at its
feet, and something that--somehow--resembled a sponge if Rodney stands on his
head and crosses both eyes, and even then it’s debatable. Highly debatable.
Just thinking about that--that thing makes his skin crawl and his stomach turn
into a wobbly knot, tasting bile at the back of his throat. God, to think what
germs and bacteria had moved in there, of who had been using that thing and--God
forbid--on what? 

Rodney doesn’t bother to smother the gagging. The incomparable feeling of
disgust turns into something closely resembling hope soon enough when the up to
now immobile lump under the blanket abruptly moves. Twitches, to be precise like
he’s been tweaked with a taser, a corner of the covers slipping off a naked
shoulder. More follows as the twitching continues. “Colonel?” A low,
painful-sounding moan answers him. And the most beautiful sound he’s heard
today. “Sheppard? If you can hear me, you need to wake up. Like, seriously.
Right now.”

The mass under the cover jerks again, harder, and Rodney, being his typical
self, starts talking. “You know, you’re supposed to do the whole stoic
military thing, not taking a nap on the floor while I’m reading you fairy
tales.” He wraps his anxiety into words like he always does, hands fretfully
waving and flapping in the air almost as swift as the wings of a hummingbird.
“Not that I know fairly tales or anything. This is so being your fault when we
end up dying in here because you are busy taking a nap. And since my end is
going to be Atlantis’, too, you’ll have to go back to earth--alone--and
explain to your military--”

“McKay.”

“--brass how incompetent you really are, and then they are going to throw you
out of the Air Force and you’ll end up in Timbuktu as a--” Wait.
“--Sheppard? You awake?”

“Yeah. Wish I wasn’t, though.”

“Ha, ha, Colonel. Why didn’t you say something, for Christ’s sake?!”

“Timbuktu, huh?”

“That’s in Africa, Lt. Colonel
My-Hair-Ate-My-Sense-of-Direction-but-Hey-the-World-is-a-Globe-Anyway-So-Who-Cares!
An oasis in Mali. But seriously, Colonel, ever since I met you there are moments
where I pause and wonder how you managed to pilot an aircraft of the USAF
without killing yourself. And take it from me, that’s not something I am used
to. Wondering about something, I mean. Of course, there’s always the military
influence to consider, and why they feed all of their men and women stupidity
and ignorance with a spoon is anyone’s guess, I don’t get that either--”

“McKay?”

“...uh, yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah.”

In silence he studies his team leader as he, without a word, rolls oh-so-slowly
over and onto his back, cutting off a groan as it hits the floor. The rest of
the blanket slides off, piling aimlessly into a jumbled mess. Looking away,
Rodney hurries to find a safe place to keep his gaze on. Something preferably
dressed. His two broken knees win the battle over the high honor of his
attention. They’re his own, and they are exactly that. Dressed. Come to think
of it, they would still be the better choice even if they were not. Sheppard’s
hand passing his line of sight startles his eyes back to the man, to his face. 

Sheppard’s pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s got a killer headache.
Given what they’ve been through, not an illogical hypothesis. Hmm. “So,”
he says.

“Rodney.”

“What? Have you met me? You know that I can't help but talk when
I’m--nervous, Colonel,” and he’s trying, you see, he’s even whispering,
“don’t tell me you--oh my God, is this part a side effect from that green
mist those alien hillbillies sprayed us with? Do you remember--?”

“Rodney!” he yells and flinches at the raw volume of his voice that’s
thrown back at him.

Ha! Only it’s not really funny, as Rodney’s body winces in sympathy. “Uh,
sorry.” 

Again with the trying to be quiet, and it may as well be just that in opposite
to the one word apology itself that has Sheppard grunt in approval. The way he
keeps his eyes closed, fingertips pressed hard into his temples, speaks
volumes.

“So?”

“So, it seems like another mission went wrong.”

“Wrong?” he hisses, quietly, mind you. “Try marvelously, spectacularly
wrong and then some.” 

“Huh.”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?! Huh, this never happens to us? Huh,
what? What are you taking--” Looking up he finds the colonel’s eyes open,
blinking rapidly into the light as if to clear his--oh. Rodney stops mid opening
his mouth, blinks in surprise. Yeah, oh. Oh! If Rodney has trouble with his
sight, well, it’s reasonable to assume Sheppard has as well. Of course it is.
“Let me guess. You’re wondering where you left your glasses, but oh, hey,
you don’t wear any glasses!”

Sheppard’s unfocused gaze snaps to his, or a little left, but close enough.

“Genius, here. Hello? And I, um, might have had the same problem.”

Dark eyebrows lift in curiosity. “Had?”

“It’s better now, when I woke up,” he pokes at Sheppard’s hand, “I
could hardly see the hand right in front of my eyes.”

“I suppose it’s not permanent.”

“No. I think it’s really a side effect of that green mist of doom. Did, uh,
Teyla and Ronon get away, by the way?”

“I--” It looks like it hurts to think. Literally. “They were ahead of us,
so they might have, yeah.”

“Meaning: I have no idea. Great. That’s great. That’s fantastic. We’re
so dead.”

“Are not. And to make sure of it, why don’t you tell me where we are and
what you remember.” Rodney opens his mouth, only to be stopped by a raised
hand, index finger extended. “Quietly!”

That he can do. And he does, even quietly. In all glory detail. Well. All glory
details he remembers, which, granted, aren’t many. The best he can do is
describing the cell, it’s all around them, after all. When he’s done,
Sheppard’s frowning, deep lines marking his face--out of concentration or
pain, Rodney isn't certain. Looking at him, eyes closed, the fingers that
aren’t pressing into his temples clenched into tight fists, hmm. Maybe it’s
not so hard. “I don’t remember waking up before, so it’s a definite
possibility that Teyla and or Ronon are around here somewhere, too, in a
different cell.”

“And that’s supposed to reassure me, how?”

“It’s not supposed to do anything, McKay. It’s called collecting data to
get a picture of what we’re dealing with. You get collecting data, don’t
you?”

“Of course I do, but it’s--” Stupid. So not helping. Christ, he doesn’t
even have words for what it is.

“Yeah. So, anything you can do in here?”

“Oh yes, sure, I just forgot to mention, Colonel, that they took my vest, my
gun, my radio and my tools, plus everything else on you including your clothes,
but hey, they gave me a sonic screwdriver in return and I just thought I’d
stay in here for the sake of old times, since it’s always so much fun to be
locked up with you and a bathroom so germ infested that other germs would rather
commit suicide than move into this damn cell!” He takes a deep breath, trying
not to yell. Really, really hard not to yell. Headache, he reminds himself.
“So for slow-on-the-uptake Air Force colonels, there’s nothing to do in
here. I checked the door while you were out. It’s safe to say you’d have to
blow it up to get it to open, which we can’t--what? What now? You wanted to
know, didn’t you?”

Sheppard is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “What did you
say?” Or maybe he’s staring a little to Rodney’s left. Close enough.

“What, what did I say? Are you going deaf, too, now? Because that would really
suck, you know, but--uh.” Oh. “Uh, yeah, I hate to say it, but someone took
your clothes. I think.” Hands fumble for skin long before he stops talking,
and Christ, Rodney would be laughing at the stunned look crossing his friend’s
face. Would be, if it weren’t so creepy.

“Fuck!” The shout reverberates from wall to wall like thunder, loud and
sudden, sharp enough to make them both cringe. Sheppard tries to curl up into
himself. 

“Moron,” Rodney says, kindly, clumsily patting Sheppard’s shoulder. The
hand makes its way along the sharp curve to cup the back of a sweaty neck.
Rodney grimaces, not letting go. Thumb and index finger search out the hard,
tightly wrung string of muscles there--and press down. Hard. Sheppard groans
weakly, trying to get away from his manipulations. He ignores it--him--nimble
fingers working following the soft knobs of his cervical spine. It got him
through lots of migraines in his teens and even more tension headaches than he
wants to count. Never pausing in his doing, he whispers, “Could you avoid
being sick on the blanket, since there’s only one other?” 

Tact, thy name is not Rodney McKay.

He never claimed it to be. In fact, he’s the first in a long line of people to
admit that, yes, he can be--is--as subtle as a pink elephant in a tutu in the
middle of a business convention and just about as insightful. Too much work and
time, time you don’t have, not with the Wraith in your backyard and the
Replicators a few doors down and who else in the close neighborhood. Or, heart
be still, if for once you do have time, you can put it to better use than sugar
coating a warranted beat down. It’s so much easier to be, well, blunt. 

Sheppard groans pitiful, one hand shooting out to swat at him. “Okay, no
mentioning that again in the future, got it.” He doesn’t move his hands from
the man’s neck, and soon enough, Sheppard stills. Huh. What do you know. Maybe
it really is helping. 

A minute passes before Sheppard says, “McKay,” and Rodney jumps, hands
falling away, saying, “What?” Too sharp, too loud, but the pilot merely
frowns, no flinching involved. 

Turning around, Sheppard pokes at the blanket, frowning up at him. “You got me
the blanket?”

“Oh, quit that. You look demented when you do that, and I’ll have you know,
this is just for my own good. I can't have you freeze to death since you’re
supposed to get us out of here, stark naked or not. With my ingenious help, of
course.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, wipe that smirk off your face, Colonel.”

He doesn’t. No surprise, there, Rodney thinks, rolling his eyes. 

“I take it there are no windows?”

“Excuse me? Did you not hear me say solid stone walls, Sheppard? In a
mountain? Do I speak Mandarin or Hindi? Seriously, don’t you think I would
have mentioned--” he stops mid rant, dazed. Bowing his head. “Ah, we’re so
going to suffocate in here.”

“We’re not going to suffocate,” Sheppard drawls, annoyed, annunciating
every word with great care--especially the word ‘not’--like he’s reading
from a script. Or speaking to a very slow child. Or both.

“Thank you! That is so comforting!”

“I aim to please. Now, I’m just asking, ‘cause the air is moving in here,
and if there are no windows to provide fresh air...”

“There has to be some kind of ventilation system down here. Right, right.”
Being inside of a mountain, that’s only logical--hello SGC!--and if he
hadn’t been inside the damn mountain panicky and fearing for his life, he’s
sure he’d have thought of that, too. A long time ago. Really.

“That’s better. Now use your superior eyesight to see if you can find
‘em.”  

“Find what?”

“The ventilation shafts, Rodney. Focus.”

Oh. Right. But. “What good does that do us, Colonel?”

“Oh for! Just do it.”

He’s tempted to say no, even more tempted to tell him where exactly he can
shove his order, but honestly, it’s not worth the air he’s breathing.
“Fine.” Cupping one hand like a visor over his eyes against the harsh light,
he skims the higher sections of the walls, and no, there’s nothing but wall
and--oh wait, there they are. “Heh. All the way up to the ceiling, two of
them. And before you ask, no, there is no ladder in here to get to them, and
sadly I still haven’t gotten that pair of wings I asked for last Christmas.
Neither did you, by the way.”

“How far up?”

What does that have to do with anything? “What does that have to do with
anything?” No answer. Christ. “Um, right, okay, maybe forty-five centimeters
below ceiling level. That’s approximately one and a half feet for you of the
US of ‘We-don’t-need-no-stinking-metric-system’ A.”

“How big are they?”

Rolling his eyes, he doesn’t even pretend not to know what the man’s talking
about. “Uh, I don’t know, how big are those things? Forty centimeters? A
little less? Hard to say, you know, being down here, on the floor and not up
there--oh wait a second, no! No, no, no, and did I mention no?”

“What?” So innocent. Fake. All fake!

“‘What,’ he asks. We are so not climbing up there! Did they hit you on the
head or something? Because your plans seem even more insane than usual from
where I’m standing--sitting. And if you expect me to climb up there and, and
crawl through the ducts with no way of knowing where they are headed, you should
be seriously worried about your mental and physical health, Colonel. Let’s not
forget your stylish new attire with no socks and shoes and those rocks are
shar--mphf!” 

Getting backhanded across the mouth by one disorientated Air Force colonel is no
fun. “What the hell?!”

“Sorry. Sorry. Just shut up for a moment, okay? I’m thinking.”

Glowering, he rubs his throbbing lips. “Don’t hurt yourself.” Rodney
mentally gets to count to one hundred thirty-nine before he speaks again, pats
himself on the back for lasting that long. “And?”

“You mentioned a bed?”

“More of a torture plank, but yes.”

“Let’s get over there. Come on.” 

What? To Rodney’s horror, Sheppard is on his feet faster than the scientist
can curse his very existence and protest just that. And that’s got to say
something. Like he’d thought, the soldier sways like a nutshell in the
proverbial tempest in the teacup. Sputtering unintelligible, Rodney has no other
choice but get up as well, both knees making noises that would have reduced him
to a whimpering state and--very possibly--another nervous breakdown about his
physical condition if it weren’t for the fact that he is so incredible pissed
at one Lt. Colonel right now that the fact doesn’t even register. 

“You utterly moronical, stubborn son of a bitch. If you break your neck
falling down--damn it, Colonel, wait!”

Of course! Of course Sheppard doesn’t see the stupid fucking brick sticking
out, and that measly thing of 10 by 10 centimeters almost takes them both down.
Rodney’s latches onto Sheppard’s arm, digging his heels in to keep them from
sprawling spectacularly on their face. He’ll never know how, but he manages to
keep them both upright. “For Christ’s sake!”

“I’m fine!”

“Sure you are,” he agrees in kind, tainted with a not-so-faint hint of
exasperation thrown into the mix. For the sake of it. “Just not for much
longer if you insist on committing any more follies like this one, Lt. Colonel
‘I-Don’t-Need-No-One’s-Help.’ You can’t see beyond a blurry blob of
brown and gray, for fuck’s sake, and you have no idea what you’re walking
into, so do us both a favor and keep those poor alien princesses and ascended
priestesses from committing suicide when they learn of your sudden death by
idiocy!”

Sheppard doesn’t say a word, which is good, or Rodney might have to give into
the urge to slug him after all. 

Keeping a firm hand on Sheppard’s arm, he stirs the unresisting man over to
the bed and sits him down. Getting the colonel settled on the bed is startlingly
easy, even though the stubborn bastard refuses to lie down. In spite of that,
easy is good. Easy is fantastic. He’s ecstatic, for ‘easy’ seldomly
anything is here in Pegasus. Not frequently, and not for a long time.

For once he takes easy without looking it in the mouth, collects blanket and
pillow and sits down. Quietly studying the other man out of the corner of his
eyes as he buries his head into his hands, fingertips busy kneading the pale
skin stretched taunt at his temples. Sheppard doesn’t look good, more than a
little green around the edges, maybe. Rodney clears his throat. Above feeling a
little uncomfortable. “How--how are your eyes?” 

Sheppard doesn’t look up, mumbling a quiet, “better,” into his hands that
sounds more like a ‘shut up’ than anything else. 

Because seriously, how much better can it be after, what, two or three minutes?
And how stupid is he for asking? “Ah,” Rodney says. Maybe it’s something
in the air. Maybe there’s not enough oxygen in it? Is it him, or does it feel
weird? Different? Gulping in a lungful of the valuable gas mixture, he ends up
feeling dizzy for his troubles. Rodney frowns. Is it harder to breathe now?

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he so doesn’t squeak.

“Breathing like you’re insane. There’s enough damn air in here, McKay.”

“Yes, yes, I just...” Am going crazy? 

“It’s fine.”

It’s fine? What the hell is that supposed to mean? “Do I have to remind you
that we are, in fact, locked up in a room with no windows--again, I might
add--no way out, no radios, no way of knowing where Teyla and Ronon are, or what
these idiots want, nor who they are, and did I mentioned you have no clothes on,
and therefore no weapons and--”

“Huh.”

“--not to mention--huh? Oh what now?! Are you even listening to me?”

“No, listen.”

“What? I knew it! There’s something wrong with the air, isn’t there?
Either that or you’ve gone batshit insane!” 

“Rodney. Listen.”

Sheppard’s face is too serious for teasing--or insane, come to think of
it--when Rodney looks up. It takes a lot of restraint, but he bites back the
sarcastic retort, lets it die somewhere on his lips, tumbling mutely to the
floor and does. Listen, that is. It takes a split second or two before he
figures it out, that there is something to listen to--outside--now, a steady
flow of noise, and it takes him an additional moment to work out what it is.
Footsteps. It’s the sound of shoes on stone, and more than one pair, and
gripping fear is hot on their heels. 

His gut takes a nosedive at the focused look Sheppard has adopted. It tells him
everything he needs to know and more about who he thinks is walking around out
there. He still jumps with the key rattling the lock, again when Sheppard
hurries to his feet. Rodney watches in fascination as the blanket falls from his
lap to the floor, pooling around a pair of naked feet. There are times he wishes
he could take himself apart--and if he isn’t clear on this, this is one of
those times--atom for atom, just like the Asgard’s transport beam, put himself
together somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere--

The door opens with a high-pitched squeal to reveal the dark beyond, instantly
cutting off his line of thought. Rodney makes to stand as well--just to be
stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder, pressing down, keeping him on the edge
of the bed. He wants to protest, to ask why, but while he had to bite back words
before, he can’t seem to get them past his too-tight throat. It’s even
harder when the dark beyond spits out four armed men into the cell. Two of them
carrying something that looks like a shotgun, while the other two are armed with
fairly modern looking pistols. Fairly modern, as in he’s never seen them
before so they might as well be ancient. 

Not Ancient, though, not with a capital a. 

He eventually quits resisting and Sheppard’s hand falls away. He not quite
misses it. The four men don’t seem to care one way or the other as they take
position at either side of the door, guns trained unwaveringly on them. Rodney
is feeling more than a little uncomfortable in his skin, a little annoyed and a
little more in awe how Sheppard can stand there, literally wearing nothing but
skin, and still look every bit as authoritative as he does any other day fully
equipped with a P-90 trained on their enemies. The four guards tower over
him--them--like Ronon towers over him--them--too tall for Rodney’s taste. He
swallows. 

All of them wear black, hooded robes, low hem sweeping the floor whenever they
move. Due to the hood, he can’t make out the guys’ faces. A ring of cool
steel closes around his chest, painfully tight and biting and making it so damn
hard to breathe. Oh no. 

People dressed in hooded robes--color isn’t an issue--are a positive sign of
bad things about to happen. Bad things about to happen with capital b, t, a, t,
and h. It’s bad enough on Earth--hello? Ku Klux Klan anyone?--but more than
ever in this sadistic excuse for a galaxy, a galaxy full of life-sucking
vampires with bad skin, bugs that don’t just poison you but try turn you into
one and every single damn disaster right out of a cheap horror flick they
stumbled over during the last couple of years. So, mysterious men in robes and
hoods? Apocalypse of crazy people, here we come! 

The door opens a second time--uh, when did it close?--and in steps--surprise,
surprise--another robe-clad man. This one, however and in contrast to the rest,
removes the hood as soon as the door closes behind him. Rodney isn’t sure if
that’s a good or bad sign. A pair of cold, piercing green eyes stare back at
them, or uh, more accurately, Sheppard. “I would ask you to come with us,
Colonel,” he speaks, calm, every word, every syllable flawlessly enunciated. 

He should feel oh-so-happy for being off the radar--and miles off if his hunch
is right. Everything this unforeseen comprehension accomplishes, though, is the
grinding of teeth and a sharp spike of underlying fear. He doesn’t want to be
alone, and he doesn’t want Sheppard to be alone with them, and he
can’t--“Please do not try to oppose our request. There is no need. Please
follow me.”

“You cannot be serious!” The words are out of Rodney’s mouth before he
knows what’s happening. “He can’t see. How do you expect him to take a
walk if he can’t see?” And, hello early grave! Sheppard’s back tenses,
body language screaming what the hell are you doing?!

He wishes he knew. 

Mr. Green-Eyes never takes the same off Sheppard. A sharp jerk of his head
toward Rodney’s team leader, however, has the men at his side moving. “Very
well.” And wow, they move fast. Two guards flank Sheppard, one of them putting
a shiny gloved hand on bare biceps, skin turning white under the pressure of the
foreign touch. Sheppard doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as twitch. Rodney
does it for him, flinching when they put a gun to the pilot’s head. If they
notice his reaction, they don’t comment on it. 

“My... superior wishes to converse with you.” Ha! Conversing my ass! “He
will be rewarding you if he likes what he hears.” For a second, the man’s
cold gaze brushes him. Just a second and he shudders like he’s the one naked.
“Let them assist you. We would not want to risk our guest of... honor to hurt
himself on the way.” Could be that he’s especially morbid today, even living
through the past years, that his brain points out instantly that ‘on the
way’ doesn’t mean anything. And no, no it doesn’t. Not at all. 

But of course Sheppard is going to offer himself on silver platter anyhow, try
and play hero all over again, to sacrifice... whatever. Of course he is. Rodney
doubts there’s another default setting to his mind. The apparent leader of
this little group clears his throat. Rodney interprets that as ‘get moving,’
and when Sheppard doesn’t, the guard shoves. Hard enough to cause the pilot to
clumsily stumble forward and very nearly into Green-Eyes. 

“Okay, okay, geez. No need to get rough.” And of course, the man uses that
lazy drawl of his. Rodney will bet anything that he’s also using that charming
grin of his, the one that Rodney--and he guesses, some of their enemies as
well--wants to wipe of his face many times a day. “I apologize for the lack of
proper attire, but you see, it seems like I lost it somewhere when I was
unconscious.” 

Make that several times an hour! Acting like this, the man has gotten himself
into more trouble than Rodney dares to remember. “Less talk, more moving,”
Green-Eyes murmurs again, not unkind or angry, just very, very matter-of-fact.
Disturbingly cool.

“Right. Lead the way.”

Fisting his hands into the fabric of military-issued pants to keep them from
doing something really stupid, Rodney watches as they walk Sheppard out of the
cell and away from him. Green-Eyes pulls his hood back on and follows, leaving
the last remaining two guards to lock up after them.

The bang of the heavy door echoes loud and empty inside him. 


*

With no sun, no shadows moving, no clock, there’s no way to know what time it
is.

He counts now and again, to see how much time goes by and if he can’t deal
with the way-too-high numbers, he starts anew. Once that isn’t acceptable
anymore, either, he starts playing Prime/No Prime with himself until the numbers
blur even inside his head. Twist themselves into a mass of swirling black and
unrecognizable gibberish. It scares him, just a little, but it’s a way of
keeping his thoughts of what really has trepidation chewing down on him. It’s
called distraction. Somewhere along the way, he’s been to check on the door
again, the alcove. So what if they’re not likely to disappear on him like
Sheppard did or--and here we go again.

Sheppard is going to come back. He knows this. 

No, he really does.

There’s no way he’s not. No way Sheppard’s leaving him here with only
panic and worry and agitation for company. Alas, as he likes to tell everyone
who’s willing to listen and those who are not anyway, he’s a genius. His
brain comes up with about two dozen ways and reasons why he might not. For
Rodney and his best pal Panic, it all comes down to three options:

#1: He’s taken to another cell.

#2: He’s going to stay where he is.

#3: They killed him.

Thank God his brain delivers a rationale or two as to why number three isn’t
likely in addition and the same breath. For all he knows, they could have killed
them with that green thing in the first place, or something else, could have
killed them while they were unconscious, could have just shot them and be done
with it. Meaning: they need him--them. For something. Want something from them.
Possibly. In conclusion, they need them alive.

And since Rodney McKay is a genius and always right--Rodney grimaces. Almost
always, his mind chides, remember Doronda? Rodney rolls his eyes. As if he could
forget that debacle of epic proportion, like, ever. He’d just about gotten
himself killed that day, not to mention Sheppard, let alone the death of Collins
and the unfortunate demise of five sixth of an entire solar system. Even his ego
isn’t that far gone to simply forget such a mistake.

Anyway, it’s most likely that he’s right this time. Gulping, he nervously
runs a hand through his hair, wishing for a laptop, the latest test results of
his minions no matter how stupid and wrongwrongwrong they are or even a damn
Rubik’s Cube. Anything to distract him from being here. Claustrophobia is a
bitch in Pegasus. No really! Apparently everyone--including mothers and
kittens--seem very adamant to lock you up in teeny, tiny places all over a
teeny, tiny galaxy. Teeny, tiny in galaxy proportions, of course, but still.
Teeny, tiny places. Many.

Exactly like this one. 

Only this is worse, because it doesn’t simply feel like they are solid walls
closing in on him. They are solid walls. Not closing in on him--not just yet, he
thinks a little hysterically--but this is bad as it is. No need to tempt fate,
oh no. He’s learned that here, too.

His eyes skim his surroundings: door, walls, the ventilation shaft way above his
head, and Christ, Sheppard had been right. You probably could climb up there. He
has little to no doubt that certain people would have little to no trouble with
it--namely Teyla and Ronon, and in all likelihood, Sheppard and most of his
goons. Some of those morons may even call it a hobby.

Rodney? 

Not so much. 

The floor is much safer. Stable. Not likely to fall out from under you. Uh. Most
of the time. But climbing the thing? He’d plummet to his painful death sooner
rather than later where the wall is concerned, and since he’s very attached to
his life, and in turn, would like very much to avoid that whole dying thing,
well, nope, thanks. The floor is just fine. 

What he finds out on said floor, is that the toilet actually works, flushing
included. Well, it’s either that germ-infested thing or using the floor to
relieve himself, and given the second choice. Well. His skin’s crawling in
repulsion just thinking about it. It’s no contest at all. After scrubbing his
hands under the faucet--with lukewarm water!--while counting to two hundred
forty in his head, he almost gets a heart attack as something clangs and
clatters behind his back, a small latch opening in the door. Rodney tenses as
someone pushes something through the gap. It closes with a high screeching sound
and the rustle of maybe keys.</lj-cut>

<lj-cut text="In the Cookies of Life, Part 2">

For the longest time Rodney just stands there, stands and stares at the tray
with its maybe-but-probably-not-terracotta decanter, two covered bowls, a fork
and spoon and a small cup, all piled up on four neatly-folded black towels.
It’s like being frozen to the spot, right there on the floor, one hand on his
thigh from where he wiped it dry and mid rotation. A grumbling stomach is what
it takes to snap him out of it, this stupor. Huh. Again it stirs the question of
would they poison them after all the trouble they went to get them here? It may
be logical to assume that it is, in fact, edible. 

Right? 

In the end it’s Rodney’s stomach that wins out, paranoia and suspicion
crumbling under the onslaught of a delicious scent of promised food. If Sheppard
had been here--yeah, well, he’s not. Right. Taking the tray back with him to
the bed, he spends a few more minutes staring before finally removing the cover
from the containers, his mouth watering as soon as he recognizes the tasty
almost-potatoes--they are blue and cut into even dices--they had been served in
several villages of their newly-acquired allies they’d visited. Along those,
there is the almost-vegetable tasting not quite but still like carrots and
peas--only they are a disgusting shade of yellow and red--and a tiny piece of
fish the waterfront tribe had provided them with.

Not only is it something Rodney can eat, but--and he never thought he’d think
this, ever--even better and more important: they are still on the same planet.
No kidnapping through the ‘gate or a ship or whatever. Small favors and all
that jazz, but they are better than no favors at all, filing the info away for
later. For when Sheppard’s come back. Pursing his lips, he picks up the fork,
pokes a little at the almost-potatoes and peas and carrots. Nothing happens.
It’s not like he expected something to happen--oh what the hell. Who is he
trying to kid? In this galaxy, by all means, it’s certainly not unheard of to
be killed by your groceries. 

And not due to something as simple as an allergic reaction, oh no.

Teyla had assured him back before the feast that the people didn’t use any
kind of citrus for their cooking.

Sheppard had done the deed of tasting, though, to make sure what they had been
told was the truth and the food wouldn’t kill him--or rather Sheppard did it
to shut him up, really, but oh, who keeps track. Impaling a small piece of
almost-potato with the long, slender fork, he pokes it with his tongue.
Doesn’t taste any different than it did before. Hmm. So maybe he can, you
know, actually eat it. Which he does, and, hmm, not bad. His stomach grumbles at
him. More. Well, of course, more. But first. He repeats the poke-taste-swallow
combo with the mix of red and yellow vegetable as well as the water, only then
does move on to digging in.

To make it absolutely clear to whoever may be watching the cell, which counts to
no one, not even a measly security camera--ha! for once big brother is NOT
watching you!--he partitions a share for Sheppard at the side of each bowl.
He’s going to share! When he comes back for lunch. Dinner. Breakfast.
Whatever. And when he gets back, Sheppard’ll be hungry, and it’s just fair
to share. Water is even more important, so Rodney’s careful not to waste a
drop of it. Done, he closes the bowls and sets the tray onto the floor.

Cursing the entire population of this planet, he goes back to counting. 

And waits.


*

Two guards--no idea if they are the same as before--eventually return Sheppard
to his cell, and not really for the worse. There’s not much different about
him, still naked, still blinking too much. The only sign that their conversation
had not been that friendly are red lines around the colonel’s wrists and
ankles. It’s not bad enough to call them rope burn, he doesn’t think, not
yet. Rubbing his right wrist, Sheppard lets himself flop down onto the mattress.
He looks tired, exhausted, but any interrogation will do that to you, even
Sheppard, Rodney reasons, nothing suspicious about that. Hmm, yes, not at all.
“Uh, you okay?” 

Inhaling deeply, Sheppard rest his head against the wall, eyes closed, before he
lets his breath out, nodding tightly. “I’m fine, McKay,” he murmurs, hands
once more going to his head, pressing their heels into his temples. Hard.

“Of course you are,” he says, not because he agrees, but because this is
what the man wants to hear. “Headache still there?” 

“I said I’m fine.”

“Yes, yes, that’s why--oh forget it. They, uh, brought us food.” The
raised brows look more than a little stupid on the man when his eyes are closed,
but he gets the question behind the gesture anyway. “No, really. I, well,
it’s the same the natives that Lorne befriended offered us, hence we have to
be on the same planet, right? Because how likely is it that there are two
planets with disgusting yellow and red-ish vegetable and blue potatoes? Of
course not real potatoes, you know, but--”

“Breathe, Rodney.” The colonel straightens slowly, shaking out his hands.
“And you’re right, we’re still on Hànzai. These guys? I’m assuming
they’re part of the mountain tribe community. Lorne did say they were
around.”

“He, uh, did?”

“Yes. In the briefing.” 

And now he sounds like he’s talking to a kid again. A very stupid kid. “Oh.
I, uh, must have been otherwise occupied, yes, that’s right. I can’t afford
to listen to your goons go on and on about weapons and blowing things up
and--”

“You were playing solitaire on your laptop.”

“--and... I-I was?”

“Ye-ah...”

“Hmm. Yeah. Probably. For good reasons.”

The corner of Sheppard’s lips twitches. “Of course.”

“Good, good. Yes.” He generously pretends to not hear the snickering coming
from hardly six feet to his left. “So, what does this, ah, tribe want from
you? Why’d they kidnap us?”

Sheppard shrugs. “No clue. They asked a lot of questions, mostly about what
exactly we’re doing here and why we interact with their damn kind. I don’t
think they believed me when I told them we’re trading partners.”

Rodney snorts. “As if that’s news.” Setting the tray on the bed and
shoving it toward Sheppard, saying, “Eat.” When the pilot doesn’t move, he
can't help but sigh, tapping one bowl with his finger tip in annoyance. “Now
what?”

“You ate?”

“Yes, I did. What do you think I am? Stupid?” He scoffs once more, adding a
full out glare for the sake of it. Doesn’t matter that it’s wasted on the
man since he’s not even looking at Rodney. “I’m not the one hell bent on
getting myself killed like some people I have the providence to know.” 

“I’m flattered.”

Rodney groans. “Of course he is.” And longs to rip his hair out.
Sheppard’s not his. “Well, don’t be. It’s not a compliment, I assure
you.”

“Figured,” he says and finally, finally reaches for the damn fork, stuffing
his mouth with the colorful mix. Chew, swallow, and start all over again. He
sneaks in a sip of water here and there, otherwise Rodney watches as the food
disappears from the bowl. Half into the meal, he realizes that the man
vis-à-vis is still naked, and while it’s still unsettling--uncomfortable--to
face an undressed Colonel Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis, it’s no
longer important. Not really. Rodney snorts silently. Public showers and all
that, but it still different and--

“So.” Sheppard eventually says, gulping down a mouthful from the goblet and
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The door?”

“The--what about it?”

“Could you get it open if I found you some tools? From in here?”

“Open? Colonel, I am clearly aware that you’re not as intelligent as I am,
in fact, no one is, not in this galaxy or the Milky Way--” he pats himself on
the back for being the bigger man for ignoring what is in all likelihood a
questionable remark, and for all he knows, an insult disguised as a cough--and
disguised not very well, for that matter, “--but you don’t have to make it
that obvious, do you? Do you see a lock on the inside? Something that makes you
think someone could do something with that piece of metal, hmm? Because really,
Sheppard, all I see is a block of steel and nothing more, so how, oh I don’t
know, am I supposed to get it open? You can’t just think ‘open’ at it and
that’s that, so I’m all ears if you want to--”

“Okay! Jesus, McKay, I get it. I was just asking.”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Colonel. And I keep telling you what a stupid
question it is!”

“Risking doing just that again, do you think you could open it from the
outside?” He holds his hands up, palms outward--in one case, fork outward, but
whatever--before Rodney even gets his mouth open to demand an explanation on how
he could think that it’s not. “Just... just hear me out, buddy.” Stupid,
that is. When Rodney makes a gesture of zipping his mouth shut, Sheppard goes
on. “The lock seems to be your ordinary lock, they used a plain key to open
it, and I’m sure I can get it open without it. There’s this small, gray box
with three flashing LEDs on the upper corner. It looks like it’s linked to the
door and an alarm system of some sorts.”

That’s--not so stupid. “Huh. Did they use a code to deactivate it?”

“Retina scan,” Sheppard murmurs, finishing his meal between sentences. “Or
I’m fairly sure that’s what it was,” he allows at Rodney’s disbelieving
look, “since he just... stood there, looked at it, and suddenly the lights
flashed all green where they flashed blue before.”

“Hmm. Go on, Colonel.”

“Why, thank you. So, I was thinking, if I could get the tools to break the
lock, do you think you could talk me through deactivating that thing?”

“And how, pray tell, are you about to get out of here?”

“Well, that’s easy. Either I make a beeline when they take me away, or I
could climb up there and use the shafts. There are more of those on the outside,
and I’m sure in more rooms than not.”

“Fine. Let’s assume you wouldn’t break your neck falling down or get
caught first, and let’s then assume that you do, in fact, get tools to get it
done, how do you think I can talk you to deactivating the thing? I can’t see
it from in here.”

“Huh, well, and here I was thinking you could fix everything.”

Rodney points a finger at the man’s face, suddenly getting a little angry and
a lot irritated. It tastes bitter on his tongue. “You are doing it again!”
he snaps, spluttering. “And you’re not asking me to fix anything.”

“I know. I’m going to describe the thing to you. It can’t be that hard,
can it?”

“Well.” He angrily crosses his arms. “Why don’t you try it then, Mr.
‘It-Can’t-Be-That-Hard’, huh?”

“That’s colonel to you, McKay, and you are the resident genius.”

Well. That’s so--true. “Right, of course I am.” Wait a minute. “You are
doing this on purpose! Appealing to my ego, so I will be--”

“McKay!”

“Yes, yes, fine. So this is your great plan, then?”

“Yes. Do you have a better one?”

Does he? “Ah...” That would be a no.

Sheppard nods. “That’s what I thought. If you come up with one, I’m all
ears.”

Rodney huffingly uncrosses and crosses his arms over his chest. This doesn’t
reward a response. No. Not at all.


*

When the guards come to collect Sheppard for the fourth time in two days, Rodney
wants to protest. The look he receives from his friend stops any form of
complaint in its wake, no matter that the rope burns on the colonel’s ankles
and wrists are getting worse, real. Not that Sheppard says anything, but the
scientist has eyes and it’s not rocket science to make out the marks,
observing them getting a darker shade of red every time he comes back.

What is really nasty, though, is that the waiting periods get longer every time
Sheppard is gone. He doesn’t really know if it’s because they keep him away
longer--he thinks it might be, partly--or if it’s just feeling that way. What
he can do, now, though, is cling to that plan of Sheppard’s, ironing out flaws
and wrinkles and possible setbacks. The plan isn’t ideal, hell, it involves
depending on the volatile factor ‘luck’ a great deal. Too much for any
scientist. 

Plotting their escape and predicting the unpredictable distracts him, though.
From waiting, from panicking, from worrying. It never goes away, but it stays
back and lurks in the shadows. Later, Sheppard walks into the cell rubbing his
upper arm, grumbling into a nonexistent beard, curses momentarily drowned out as
the door slams shut. Loudly. Ouch.

“Don’t say a word, McKay.”

“I didn’t, uh...what did you do?”

“Why do you think it’s my fault? Do I have to remind you that they,” he
jerks a thumb towards the door before wincing and going back to rubbing his arm,
“are the bad guys, not me?”

“No, really? I wouldn’t have figured that out by myself, Colonel. I’m so
grateful.” Sheppard glowers at him, but sits down anyway. Two feet away. “So
what did you do?”

“I asked questions about the box in front of the door. Subtly, but one of the
guards wacked me in the arm with the riffle anyway. Seems like they only enjoy
asking the questions, not the other way ‘round.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything!” he defends, lying through his teeth.
Unfortunately, he can’t lie for shit, and the glare pointed at him is no
surprise. Rodney huffs. “Fine. Be that way.”

They sit in silence for a long time. One, because Rodney’s a little miffed,
staring at the wall and nothing at all, and second, because he tries to gather a
little courage to ask a question he’s been dying but too much of a chicken to
ask since they moved Sheppard in with him. So to speak. “Ah, how are the
headaches?”

“Better.”

“Good, that’s...”

“Good.” Sheppard gives him an odd look. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Hmm. Sure.” Another pause. “So. Did they, uh, happen to mention why
exactly they took away your,” he makes a sweeping motin with his hand,
indicating the blanket wrapped figure before him, “clothes? It’s not like it
would keep you in here. Is it?”

“Ah, no, that’s not it. It’s, well, let’s call it a tactic. To make
us… compliant.”

“How?”

“Ever had that dream where you popped up naked at work or school or whatever?
How that made you feel? Being naked in a room of fully dressed people? It’s a
power play, Rodney.” He chuckles. “A creative way of pressuring you into
submission. To cooperation.”

Rodney wonders what’s there to laugh about, because from this end? It sounds
horrible. “By humiliating you.”

“Among other things, yup.”

In fact, it sounds like torture, and Rodney’s fairly sure that that is what it
is, too. What Sheppard doesn’t say. Probably the best choice, given that
Rodney doesn’t react well to that... word. And who in their right mind does?
Minus the usual suspects, but that’s so not the point and it’s so not
helping. “Oh.” The wave of anger that collapses over him is a surprise. Not
that it’s there, that’s expected. Its intensity isn’t, pulling his head
under, drowning every other emotion racing themselves toward an invisible finish
line.

Panic. Fear. Nervousness. Helplessness; all of it gives away under the burning
anger curling in and around him, wiggling around till it’s lying lazy and at
home, a second skin beneath--a constant threat to choke him to death. It’s not
a remotely comforting feeling, oh no, but it gets his head clear, the underlying
fear and panic no longer clouding his mind to the point where he’ll be
incapable of rational thoughts sooner or later. And that’s what they need,
don’t they? For him to outthink the bad guys once again.

He longs to protest when they come to collect Sheppard again later, wants to
throw a hissy fit he’s famous for, but the look Sheppard gives him, the hard
glare, is once more enough to stop him. As soon as he’s alone, the colorful
wings of nervousness start fluttering under his skin as worry tears at his
throat like the claws of a frightened cat. This is his part of the play Sheppard
was talking about. Letting him wait with only worry and fear for company,
keeping him in the dark, not knowing what’s happening to his friend, if he’s
coming back. 

Maybe it’s working.


*

He’s dozing lightly when Sheppard stumbles back in another time. The first
sign of red dribbling down the man’s chin and neck and the last lingers of
slumber are shocked away like a deer caught in the headlights. He is on his feet
the moment the door slams shut, staggering toward the bleeding man. A bleeding
man who shakes his head, gesturing him back to the bed before he collapses onto
it himself. Rodney can only gape, eventually plopping down next to him. 

Sheppard cups a hand over his mouth, blood sweeping through the gaps between
fingers as he coughs into it. Rodney grimaces in repulsion, making for a morbid
sight “What the hell?” he exclaims, somewhere between irritation and
incredulity. “Do you want me to throw up, because if that’s what you
want...” But Sheppard shakes his head again, coughing out more blood before he
holds out his hand. Rodney doesn’t dare look at it. “What...?”

“Blade.”

“Did they hit you on the head?”

“Rodney!”

“What?” The colonel waves a hand in front of his eyes. Only then does he
notice there’s not just blood on said appendage. In fact, there’s something
that looks like a small knife, sans handle, mind you, maybe five centimeters
long and gleaming with blood in the bright light. Rodney feels his stomach
churn. Oh geez! Eww. “You don’t expect me to touch that, do you?”

Sheppard laughs. A small broken sound without humor. “Don’t ever change,”
he murmurs. And lets the thing fall right into his lap. Eww! “Clean it up and
hide it somewhere.” It’s too much work to go and protest, so he covers his
hand with his shirt, picks it up and goes into their wonderful bathroom. Turning
on the water, he grimaces a second time. It’s a nice, light brown again--not
as bad as before, nevertheless bad enough. He waits until it’s half way to
clear before he holds the bloodied piece of metal under the stream, watching
bright red turn into soft pink and then not watching as it disappears down the
drain. 

Talk about morbid sights. 

When he turns around, he just about walks into Sheppard. Sheppard, who’s
rinsing his mouth with water, spitting it into the toilet. In plain sight.
“Thank you,” he mutters, “for waiting for me to get out of here.” But he
offers him another fill, not missing the cut on his lower lips when he returns
to the bed, too. “How’s your mouth?”

“It’s just a small cut, don’t worry.”

“Why the hell did you pull that anyway? You could have--”

“We need it, shut up.”

Rodney snorts. “‘We need it,’” he parrots. “Pardon me for thinking you
need that tongue of yours, too.”

“Worrying about my tongue?” Sheppard wiggles dark eyebrows. “Something you
wanna tell me?”

He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes are on a roll anyway. “What are you?
Twelve?” he snaps. And scowls when Sheppard just laughs. “Ha, ha, ha, yes,
oh so funny. Not. Do us all a favor and don’t take it up as a second career.
People will jump off the towers, and do I need to mention how much paperwork
that is? No? Good.” Adopting a rather sober expression, the colonel hold up
his hands. ‘I give,’ the gesture says, and Rodney takes a deep breath. And a
hint. “Uh, yeah. Did... did it stop bleeding?”

“Yeah. It’s not deep, it just bleeds like a bitch. You know that.”

He does. “Yes, yes, fine. Now tell me what possessed you to hide that thing in
your mouth!”

“Where else?”

“Where else?! I have you know--oh. Uh, right.” Naked means no clothes,
therefore no pockets, and in turn, no places to hide something. “You think
it’s going to work?” Meek now, subdued. 

“Hey, it’s one of my plans.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m asking. Usually it ends with me having to save your
hide.”

“Well, then I believe it’s good we’re both here,” he drawls, lazily
leaning back.

“How the hell did you manage to get your hands on that thing anyway?” Rodney
muses aloud, but when Sheppard opens his mouth to fucking tell him, he wags both
hands at him. “No, no, no, no, no, that was a rhetorical question, Colonel. I
really don’t need to know.”

“Like I said, we need it.”

Are you crazy? he thinks. “Try to avoid getting killed by the natives for
stealing something as stupid as a damn knife, Colonel. Elizabeth would make me
write the damn report, and I have no time for that.” Then again: “Hey, do
you think she’d object if I send a bunch of my staff down here? Only the ones
annoying me the most? I mean their stupidity would probably get them all killed,
and then they couldn’t accidently blow us all up, so.”

Sheppard stares at him. “You’re all heart, McKay.” 

“Oh yes, that’s precisely what my minions say behind my back.” He frowns.
“Or to my face, depends on who we’re talking about.” Radek, sneaky, little
Czech that he is--and not totally brainless like the rest of the lot--sometimes
does, in Czech, a few others with the guts to do it, but otherwise. Hmm. Damn
cowards.

At some point, they both go to sleep. Or Rodney does. He isn’t sure Sheppard
sleeps at all, no matter what excuses he gives whenever Rodney abruptly jolts
awake. They both need sleep, as much as possible to keep up their strengths. He
tells him that, but all Rodney gets is a, “I’m fine, McKay,” and, “go
back to sleep, McKay.” He wants to be difficult, say that he’s going to wake
in a few minutes anyway, and if Sheppard is there and awake, why should he be
the one napping? 

He’s asleep long before he gets his mouth open.


*

Another day begins--Rodney doesn’t know if it’s day, but the lights are
brighter now than they were from the gazillion times he woke whenever he was
supposed to sleep, so he takes it as a sign--goes by and ends like a
“Previously On…” of their little show. This time, Rodney’s in the
bathroom when they come to take Sheppard, watches them leave with a clenched jaw
and clenched fists and a gut clenched tighter than both together. It’s his
default setting for the situation. 

He spends his alone time searching out a perfect place to hide the silver
gleaming blade, even though he doubts they’ll search the cell at one point.
Why would they assume they’d try to break out given the way this is built? And
that detail might actually come as a blessing. They don’t know the genius that
is Doctor Rodney McKay.

Or the crazy that are Sheppard’s hazard plans. 

Rodney smirks. Oh they won’t know what hit them. 

Eventually he decides on a small crack in the wall behind the toilet. There’s
just enough space to slip the blade inside, but not enough that it could get
lost between loose rocks. 

The knife could work to prod the grille open. Could, because it’s not easy to
make out details from down here, and who knows what else could go wrong. It’s
not hard to make out places to put hands and feet if one would climb up there.
Eyeing the stone floor, Rodney gulps again. Better not think about it, then.
Knowing Sheppard, he probably isn’t really thinking about that at all, while
Rodney’s gut takes a leap for the floor, hiding under the cot from not
thinking about it.

He’s quick to re-take his spot on the bed, ignoring the wall.

He must have fallen asleep whilst ignoring the wall, as the next thing he knows,
the door is yanked open and Sheppard shoved inside, holding once again onto his
arm. Rodney feels his eyes widen, stomach clamping up uncomfortable at the
blood. A slow trickle down his arm and hand where it hangs limply by his hip,
dripping onto the floor. Dripdripdrip. Slow and steady, to remind him he
doesn’t really do good with, um, blood. And other things. Uh, many other
things. Damn it. 

He watches wide eyed as Sheppard walks over and sits on the bed, catching a
glance under whatever he’s pressing onto the bleeding wound. “It almost
stopped,” he’s told, and Rodney can't help the sardonic snort. 

“Yes, that is why you’re dripping blood all over the sheets, Colonel.”
Sarcasm is his defense, and come on, you can’t expect him to react another
way. “That’s not only disgusting, but also incredibly unhygienic.” Stomach
churning, he still pulls on the hand keeping pressure on the wound.

“Stop that!”

“Lemme see.”

“McKay. Stop fussing. ‘s nothing, just a minor cut.”

“Meaning, they cut off half of your arm. Move.”

“No.”

“Colonel--”

“Back. Off.” It’s not what he says, not the words spewing out of the
soldier’s mouth, it’s how he says it. 

It’s an order. A voice usually reserved for throwing orders left and right in
the field, when some overachieving natives come running shooting and screaming
after them, trying to take over Atlantis, or kill off his team--in short, for
‘oh-God-we-are-all-going-to-die’-situations, as Rodney has them dubbed in
his head. And even though he usually bitches about it, loudly, he follows
anyway. Looking at the man, it might be the correct thing to do now, too. 

“Fine. But don’t come running to me when you get gangrene and your arm
really does fall off.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself.” Rodney doesn’t have to see the man’s
face. He can hear the eye rolling. 

He stifles the urge to copy the gesture, stomps down on it like it’s a
particularly ugly bug. Instead, he glowers darkly at the bowed head, putting as
much sarcasm and bite as he can into the prompt response. “My heartfelt
gratitude, Colonel.” 

After that little incident, it’s obvious that the
‘don’t-hurt-the-captives-on-the-way’ rule is off, for the way the guards
treat Sheppard is not at all careful. The opposite, it’s fairly vile, hand
coming down hard below the cut as they yank him to his feet, almost toppling the
plate over dragging him away. Never once do they spare a glance Rodney’s way.
Not a bad thing, for he wants to hurl the damn plate at their head, and that
wouldn’t have ended well for either of them.

The very next day, it dawns on him that they need to go now or they won’t
leave at all. 

The moment Sheppard steps into the cell from his second interrogation of the
day, he fears it might already be too late. That from now on there’s nothing
but wait for Atlantis to come and find them. Soon. It’s not the two or four
additional bruises or even the cuts that have appeared since the first day that
has fear clawing at his chest, squeezing his lung until it hurts to breathe, or
the blood that highlights the newly formed wounds and Sheppard’s hairline,
it’s the way he limps, leaving footprints in his wake.

Footprints of blood. 

It’s not hard to figure that out, the dark stains way to obvious on a pale
gray floor in the harsh white light.

Rodney is up and across the room in a blink. 

“What did they do?” he demands, ignoring Sheppard’s attempts to brush off
his hands, his assistance to get his the battered body on top of the mattress.
Fear and anger swirl to a burning acid in his stomach, making itself known in
the high pitched voice that tumbles in broken, hoarse words like stones from his
mouth, down to the floor. A floor that’s an ugly mess. Swallowing bile, he
crouches in front of Sheppard, not able to take his eyes of the blood pooling
under the other man’s feet.

So, pooling may be vaguely exaggerated, but are we surprised? Rodney scoffs,
shaking his head. It’s him after all. He slowly guides Sheppard into a
horizontal position, repeating, “What the hell did they do?”

“Nothing. They did nothing,” is the muffled reply. 

Fine. If he doesn’t want to tell, Rodney’s not going to force him. Scowling,
he’s already moving to take a look at the offending appendages. They are one
bloodied mess, and for the life of him, Rodney can’t decide on an appropriate
reaction: throwing up, screaming, cursing, or maybe all of the above, and all at
once if possible? When it comes down to it, down to him, he doesn’t do any of
it. Instead, he bites the insides of his cheeks until it hurts, really hurts,
jerking to his feet and storming into the bathroom. Amply ignoring Sheppard’s
calls of “McKay,” and “the hell do you think you’re doing?” as well as
the lively curses.

Wrenching the arm of the faucet, he lets the water pour down the drain until
it’s as clear as he knows it gets, yanking one of the towels from the side of
the sink. They are coarse, like worn, hard dried terry cloth, feeling more like
the stone wall in his hands then a towel. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass if
they aren’t meant for this as he brings it back with him to the bed where it
lands in a dull thump on the floor, the filled bowl right next to it.

“I am aware that this is probably entirely unhealthy--oh God, what am I
saying? Of course it’s unhealthy, but there’s no Carson around not even one
of his evil witches, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave those...
chunks of whatever in there?” It’s not supposed to come out with a question
mark at the end, it happens anyway. It also happens that Rodney is this close to
really throwing up, for come on, how can anyone walk on that? 

“Rodney!”

Huh? Not only does he sound like he’s said it before--and said it a
lot--Sheppard looks that way, too, when Rodney drags his eyes away from the
bloody mess long enough to notice those things. Dark eyes all narrowed, pinning
him to the spot. “What?”

“Do what you have to.”

And oh, isn’t that one of his favorite exclamations? “Fine,” he grits out,
“turn on your front and scoot a little lower so your feet hang over--uh, yeah,
okay, that’s--that’s enough.” He swallows hard at the gory sight, up and
close. O-kay. Deep breath. He can do this. He totally can. It’s not like
he’s actually going to touch that mess, which would do more bad than good
anyway and Rodney’s not sure--

“Rodney...”

Quiet and kind and... “Yes, yes, I’m working on it. Geez.” Settling on the
floor--knees, knees, oh his knees won’t thank him for this--he pulls the bowl
of water closer, cupping his hands into the cool. Letting it splash first over
one torn sole, then the other, over and over and over. Winces when Sheppard
flinches as the stream hits an especially nasty looking torn bit of skin.
“Sorry, sorry...”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I can’t even count the ways this is not okay.”

“McKay...”

“Shut up, Sheppard, just shut up.” And on second thought, adding a snippy,
“working here.”

“When are you not?”

Teasing, well, teasing is good. Right? As long as Sheppard’s still teasing,
everything’s fine. Then again, he’d likely be doing it if he was missing an
arm, bleeding to death on the side. So. Good is relative, but what isn’t these
days? With most of the blood gone, however, the scientist gets a first good look
at the damage inflicted on the soles of the colonel’s feet. It’s not one
clean cut, not even a couple, like someone sliced him up on purpose, no, much
more like his feet where rubbed raw. Shredded skin all over the place. Like
they’ve been worked over with a meat tenderizer. And worked over good.

He’s seen this before. Granted, not to a degree this bad, but he’s seen it
before. A pair of small, pale feet when Jeannie had been running around barefoot
all around the house and no one had bothered to monitor and forbid she
wouldn’t go outside. The combo of pebbles, rough stones, and cement on tender,
unprotected flesh had turned Jeannie into a weeping, clingy mess. Thank God
it’s impossible that Sheppard will end up that way. Well, the weeping and
clingy part, for the man’s feet are even more of a mess than his sister’s so
long ago.

Oh Christ. “Damn it, why didn’t you say something?!”

A pause, then, “What was I supposed to say, McKay? How ‘bout, my feet are
getting kinda cut up here since they let me walk over that nasty, sharp stuff
out there in the hallway, any brilliant ideas, genius? Like you were so damn
insistent to remind me, there’s nothing you can do.”

Okay. Remember bitching about getting backhanded? That? Was nothing against
this. It stings, does for one hell of a backlash, getting him to shut up. He’s
right, of course. 

“It’s not so bad, McKay,” Sheppard appeases. “They take me to that room
on the other side of the hall, has ‘em sitting me down, and then I’m just
sitting there, ya know. No big deal.” He can’t tell if Sheppard’s just
humoring him, not while he’s pressing his face into the hollow of his bend
arm, not one hundred percent. Rodney decides he doesn’t need to and doesn’t
want to know. “Had worse. How ‘bout you?”

Rodney frowns. “What about me?”

“How are you holding up?”

That’s... unexpected. To say the least. Sure, Sheppard cares, he always does,
but. “I don’t--Do you think they’ll find us?” ‘They’ is Atlantis, of
course and in the privacy of his own mind and the few minutes Sheppard is back,
he already crossed out the colonel’s plan. There’s no way in hell he’s
climbing up the wall, not with feet looking like, like...this and not if Rodney
has a say in it. Taking in the dragging silence, no quip coming forth,
Rodney’s gut drops like a stone down a well. Silent confirmation that they are
in need of a new plan, or a daring rescue from the outside. 

Possibly both.

“As far as I can tell,” Sheppard finally says, low and deliberate, breath
controlled, “they didn’t get their hands on Teyla and Ronon. They never came
up in the--conversations I had with the chief.” In other words, there’s
still hope that something will alert Atlantis that something is amiss sooner
than a missed check-in five days subsequent to their arrival, and Lorne will
take a bunch of marines and come out to blow shit up. 

Knowing the location they’re stuck in, it’s gonna be plenty of stone. Come
to think of it, the place they were taken from a little outside their hosts’
village is an exceptionally long way from the ‘gate. Without the ‘jumper,
that is, and lacking Sheppard and Rodney, Ronon and Teyla will have no other
choice but to go by foot. In his calculations, that’s at least a two-day hike,
closer to three, possibly--and right through the thick woodland of the planet,
not to mention the foothills of rather impressive mountains they had crossed
upon their arrival.

And Ronon and Teyla may be fast on their feet, yes, sure, but they still cannot
fly. Or teleport.

By the time they make it back, there would be still the quest of finding them.
Pinpointing their location in the middle of a world overflowing with wildlife,
sans radio. A challenging task, considering the outer forest hasn’t even been
explored to this day. For good reasons, as it is a maze of trees and cliffs and
lakes and whatnot. No, as far out as Rodney thinks they are--and looking around
them, at the bare stone walls, they are; they wouldn’t have missed the big,
fat mountain right around the corner of the village--it would take time to
complete the search.

Shaking the depressive thoughts off, or trying to, he finishes on Sheppard’s
feet. What he can do, he’s done, it’s got to do, and cleans up. “So.”
Sheppard’s eyes zoom in on him as he comes back. “You didn’t answer the
question.”

“What question?”

“How you’re holding up? I mean with the hypoglycemia and all that?”

“Oh. Um, no it’s... surprisingly okay? I guess?” The colonel keeps
looking, though, one eyebrow moving toward his hairline. “What?”

“You ain’t complaining?” 

“Did you lose the ludicrous excuse of what passes up as your brain in here?
Are you--no wait. If you insist, fine. I hate this planet, I hate the stupid
woods and mountains, I hate the brainless morons kidnapping us. I hate the food,
I hate that you stupid son of a bitch never bothered to tell me that you’re
not going to make it up that stupid fucking rock. Hell, I hate that I’m so
fucking glad about that and that I’m so close to a panic attack every time
they take you away!” He knows he’s getting louder with every word, nearly
ending in yelling and hysterics, but it all seems so far away. 

“I hate that there’s always a possibility that you won’t come back, that
I’m fucking scared to death of ending up alone in here, what they do to you,
but most of all, most of all Colonel, I hate that I can’t do a damn thing
about any of those things, and it’s fucking fantastic that I’m having a
nervous breakdown right in front of--I hate this, Colonel, believe me I
hate—” He barks out a startled laugh, one on the wrong side of hysterical.
“What do you want me to complain about first because from where I stand--”
He trails off then, first because there’s nothing more to say and second
there’s no air to talk any more, breathing too fast, too shallow. 

That’s why the startled yelp ends up as a faint squeak when Sheppard snags his
wrist and pulls him down on the bed, going down with a faint “oof.” 

“That’s better.”

Gulping for air, it takes a second to realize what he’s being told.
“Huh?”

Sheppard smiles, that stupid grin of his that reaches his eyes, crinkles them
softly at the corners and has every single woman throwing themselves at his
feet. A lot of men, too, surely. “I can deal with you complaining, buddy,
panicking like this, that’s cool. But you being all so damn quiet and calm?
C’mon, that’s just not natural, McKay.”

If he had enough air to spare--which he doesn’t--he’d tell him exactly what
he thinks of this, this babying the freaked out civilian or whatever, but for
now, he settles for a glare and for poking him in his ribs. Sheppard flinches
from the contact, and Rodney snatches the hand back like he’s been burned.
Tilting his head a little, there’s a small, dark purple, egg-shaped bruise
right there, almost invisible in the light. He doesn’t dare ask what caused
it. Sheppard, in typical Sheppard-speech, says it’s “just fine,” and
he’s “just a little sore.”

Yes. Of course. Sore and fine always go along that well. Like being death and
being alive at the same time.

“Relax, Rodney, I’m all right.”

“Of course you are. Do you want me to point out how fine you are? For God’s
sake, would you just look at yourself!”

Apparently Rodney’s face must be very expressive again, because the colonel
says, “Damn,” and “it’s good then that there’s no mirror around,
huh?” Stupid, cocky grin. That stupid, cocky grin that has Rodney’s hands
clenching and unclenching, itching to wipe it away. “Or you know, pretty
girls.”

And that’s just--great. Burying his face in his hands, there’s nothing he
wishes more but for all of this to go away, just away. This mission wasn’t
supposed to be anything more than a duty call, nothing more but to honor these
peoples’ goodwill, their willingness to trade with them. Making nice. Nothing
more, nothing less. It’s only then that the scientist becomes aware of the
hand curled around his wrist still, holding on. Feels himself tremble under its
steady weight.

“Hey.” Sheppard tugs on the hand, squeezing, pushing him to look up. After a
minute and another round of tug and squeeze, Rodney does. “You’re gonna get
out of here,” he says, sure and steady like the hand on Rodney’s wrist.
“We’ll just have to find another way.”

“‘You’? Careful Colonel, or the rest of your brain cells might leak right
out of your ears and there’s nothing to do for--” He clears his throat,
uncomfortable. Again. “Anyway. If you make Elizabeth make me write that damn
report, I swear...” He doesn’t finish this sentence either, simply pointing
a reproachful finger at the man. Daring him to say something.

“Hey, okay, geez, Rodney, I didn’t mean it like that!” The words are
feeble, but his grip tightens on Rodney’s arm. “So... we’re just waiting
for Teyla, Ronon and Lorne to come and bust us out of here, then we can walk out
and you can complain of how long it took them and...” Rodney’s eyes narrow.
“Okay, so I may be limping a bit,” he drawls, lazy. “What’s a
little...?” Sheppard blinks. And trails off. 

Wow. 

Could there actually be a spark of self-preservation left in the man after all?
Rodney barely believes that Sheppard actually shuts his mouth, avoids his eyes.
If he hadn’t, by God, Rodney would have hit him. And hit him hard regardless
of how battered he’s already looking. The scientist’s sense of humor went
down the drain with the pink tainted water, blood that got soaked up by the
stones. 

“You may find this funny,” he snaps, “but I sure as hell don’t, so spare
me your inapt attempts at this horrible carefree attitude. What happens the next
time they come for you? And they will come, won’t they? Until one of us tells
them what they want to know. Something that’s impossible since we don’t know
anything at all.” The silence speaks louder than any heated argument between
them ever did, weighs about a ton in his gut. 

“This isn’t the first time someone tortured me for answers, Rodney.”
Sheppard allows, eventually, quietly. Ha! Rodney knows. He had been there when
Koyla had the Wraith feed on him, had been there when--Rodney gulps painfully.
Thing is, as much as the Pegasus galaxy has knocked them down, he has the
burning inkling Sheppard isn’t talking about any of that--in any way.
“I’ve seen it all before, had ‘em ask me questions. I’m still here.
‘Kay?”

They both don’t do the talking thing. Or the emotional thing. Or--er, take
your pick and you’d probably be right given that they don’t do a lot of
things. So he simply nods, and nods some more and as he almost believes he can't
stop fucking nodding, the hand on his wrist tightens, and he forces himself to
still.


*

The following days pass like they are caught in a time loop, every day the same
horrid routine. There are times when they don’t pick up Sheppard at all,
leaving them to their nervous anticipation, or Rodney’s, to the burning
dread.

Why they still insist on asking the same questions ad nauseum, he doesn’t
know. Sheppard explains that they want to break his resolve. What resolve? he
longs to ask the guards, wants to scream at them. There is no resolve, for
God’s sake! Don’t you think I would tell you, God damn it? Tell you a
thousand times over, just to make you stop? 

The anger is one thing Rodney lets himself cling to. It’s a crutch helping him
to get up in the morning and keep going. Panic and fear long since melted into a
bone deep feeling of helplessness and resignation, and without the anger to
cling to, anger so deep and burning, he’s sure he would go mad, freeze his
insides. Or something. And if the anger was liquid, it would sure as hell burn
right through the damn door of their prison cell. If wishes were horses... yes,
yes!

Given the circumstances, they both don’t exactly smell like roses anymore, and
it doesn’t do a thing for Rodney’s mood.

The only bright spot is that the ventilation system does its job as it should.
Else they’d be either a special kind of high by now, or blissfully
unconscious. Doesn’t mean he does not wrinkle his nose every time he gets a
whiff of himself--or Sheppard. Doesn’t mean he’s not itching all over,
seeing his skin rot of his bones right there in his mind’s eye or in his
nightmares. Sheppard looks akin to a life punching bag; an ugly mix of blue and
yellow and purple and the deep red of blood, black where it dried. He’s
quieter, too, doesn’t protest and doesn’t resist much anymore when Rodney
cleans out the worst of it all.

And there is still nothing he can do.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Besides waiting. And talking. 

And talking he does. Keeps up a steady stream of chatter, a stream he’s sure
would have run dry--not naturally, but with a sharp gesture or a glare or a
word--if it had been any other circumstance. It’s not enough. Nothing, really,
but it helps to keep himself sane, and maybe it helps the colonel, too. Just a
little. It always comes back to not being enough. Whatever he’s going to do,
it will never be enough. Not in here, not now. But it’s a beginning. 

“Get up,” he tells Sheppard soon, setting the plate down on the bed when he
doesn’t uncoil from under the blanket. “You need to eat.” When he still
doesn’t move, Rodney nudges him carefully. “Sheppard.” 

“Go away.”

“No.”

“I’ll throw up.”

Rodney grimaces. Forcing himself to go on. “You need to eat and drink, to keep
your strength up.” Sheppard still doesn’t move. “Seriously Colonel, I’m
not joking. It’s either you eat by yourself or I’ll feed you.” He isn’t
sure he could force feed the man, regardless of his state, and he isn’t
certain he wants to try. 

A snort comes from beneath the covers. “You and what army, McKay?”

“Please.” He doesn’t beg. Rodney McKay does not beg, and this isn’t
begging so much as it is appealing to the man’s protective instinct. Or maybe
just him being desperate. He doesn’t care since it works, whatever it is, the
battered body peeling itself out of its tight, warm cocoon. Reaches for the
plate. Rodney swallows a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

You’ll thank me when it comes back to say hello, the man’s glare says. Not
an appealing thought, but he can't help that. Not eating is a greater risk than
Sheppard throwing up. The days start to blur into each other already, a constant
litany of hurt and pain and helplessness, resignation crawling right under his
skin and so close to the surface that he scares himself just a little. They are
waiting to show their ugly heads, and Rodney’s not sure he knows what he’s
more afraid of: things to change, or things to stay the same.


*

Approximately two weeks after he first woke up in this godforsaken place, Rodney
starts praying. 

Not to a God he doesn’t believe in anyway, but to please, please, someone come
and get them, now now now. It’s when he finds himself on his hands and knees,
gagging at the stench of burnt flesh, gut rolling like a boat during an angry
storm, carefully breathing through his nose. Trying to.

“You can throw up if you want.”

The words reach him through a thick curtain of white noises, the rushing of
blood in his ears, so far away, having him on the verge of hysterical laughter.
Regardless of how miserable he is right now, there’s no way to miss the
clipped tone, the pain belying the casual words. It’s what gets him out of his
numb state, arm curling tightly--protectively--around his middle. He counts to
forty in his head before he moves, jostling himself around and up on his knees,
slow, just to make sure he doesn’t throw up after all, getting to his feet. 

He staggers toward the hunched-over figure on the floor like he’s drunk.
Seeing Sheppard like that, it’s so, so wrong. 

It’s more like him when he pushes himself to his feet as soon as he notices
Rodney hovering close, even more so when he staggers over to the bed, plopping
down as if his legs give out under him. Maybe they do. “I’m fine,” Rodney
says, a lot too late, a little dazed, walking into the bathroom to get water and
a towel and... oh God. The stench is so much worse up close, overwhelming if
truth be told. It’s not enough to keep him from reaching out, conviction, the
need to know, to see, like adrenaline pumping in his blood. “Where?”

“I don’t think you want to do that,” Sheppard murmurs, quiet and tired.

No, he doesn’t. Only he has to, there’s no one else around, and Sheppard
would if it were Rodney. He can’t not do this. Cautious of the many bruises,
he curls his hand over a bony shoulder, fingers splayed out wide and pressing
into shoulder blades. “Colonel. Show me,” he says with a confidence he’s
not feeling. Not all the way. And. Ha! What a joke that is! 

“McKay.” 

It’s a warning, but it’s not what hits him hard. That one word sounds like
it was painfully ripped from his throat, a sheet of paper out of a book, bit by
bit, voice hoarse and raw that it catches somewhere in the middle of Rodney’s
name. And... that’s new. It sounds like a million different things, and in the
end only like one: like Sheppard has been screaming. 

Rodney closes his eyes. 

No, no, no, shit, no, that’s not something he wants to imagine. Just...
can’t. Knows he’s going to hear John scream in his dream the next time he
will fall asleep no matter if true or not. He can’t think about that. Not now,
not ever. If he does, he’s not sure what will happen. Guilt and shame too
close to the surface, about to rip him to shreds right there. He swallows it
down. Guilt and worry and shame, it all tastes the same--like bile on his
tongue, wishing and praying and--no. He bites the insides of his cheek until he
flinches away from the sharp sting of teeth. 

Forcing his eyes open, he glares at Sheppard. “Are you deaf? Show me, or I
swear!” He isn’t sure what he’s swearing upon, the words merely tumble out
of his mouth like jagged pebbles down a mountainside after an explotion. He
doesn’t care. It hurts. Everything hurts too much, even thinking, being
angry.

Hurt turns to agony the moment Sheppard moves. Moves his arm out of the way like
Rodney asked him to.

It doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore. What has he been thinking? Christ,
he can’t do this!

The mark is not large, a perfect circle of angry pink skin, edges ragged and
black, but it must hurt like hell and it takes all of Rodney’s determination
not to run away and hide and throw up somewhere. It’s not an accident, Rodney
knows. This is far too clean a burn to be, but he can't help himself, can’t
help that he wishes it were. Rodney digs his fingernails into his palms. They...
bastards! Branded him like a piece of fucking cattle. Nothing more than
a--blind, hot fury explodes inside him, white and blazing, a flame brighter than
a nuke blowing over Atlantis’ impenetrable shields. 

Above all the noise, his brain calmly explains to him the various options he now
holds in the palm of his hand, and the one where he turns away and sits in the
corner, rocking back and forth muttering like a mad man comes up a lot. As does
the one of blowing all those assholes heads away. Just away. He can see it now,
in all its glory, gory details, the demise of their tormentors. No idea what he
would do given the chance, yet it wouldn’t be pretty. That much he does know.
And he knows ways to not make it pretty, oh yes. He isn’t a genius for
nothing. Maybe playing with fire a little, or--

“Rodney...”

The soft murmur of his name effectively snaps him out of his gloomy daydream. 

“You’re looking a little green there, buddy.” 

And you still sound like you screamed yourself hoarse, he wants to say, but
doesn’t. He isn’t that brave. And they don’t mention things like this.

“Sit on the floor,” he evades. Has him lean with his back against the wall,
torso tilted a little to the right and back so he can douse the wound with water
without getting the rest of Sheppard too wet, too cold. On second thought, he
covers the pilot’s legs with the blanket, too afraid of him going into shock
or some other horrible medical condition. 

If the colonel’s hands tremble where they lie at his side on the floor, curled
lightly into themselves, if sweat--and it is sweat, he doesn’t dare deem it to
be anything else--runs down his temple, slowly dripping from his chin, and if
Rodney’s hands shake as they work, effective and nimble as ever, like they
were buried in the guts of some Ancient console, if he’s more silent than
usual, and if they both notice, they don’t mention it. What it comes down to,
though, is that he can’t take the silence. Locked up and scared as hell, be
damned, he’s Rodney McKay, resident super genius and a mouth that runs a mile
a minute after all, using talking as a coping mechanism. And huh, if this
situation didn’t require a coping mechanism, he’d eat his own hat. 

If he had one, that is. On second thought, probably not. Chewing on his lower
lip, he thinks he is essentially going crazy, silence terrifyingly loud in his
ears, throwing his brain into a vacuum on the verge of bursting into pieces and
dripping out of his nose. God, it’s either making noise, even if it’s just
banging his hand against the floor rocking back and forth, or scream as loud and
long as he can. Neither sounds particularly appealing. This, this insane stoical
composure Sheppard’s pulling off, taking this all in stride like it’s
nothing, perfectly normal and happening every day, is making it worse. Always
making it worse. 

In fact, it’s driving him up the wall. 

“Say something,” he demands harshly, desperation bleeding out of his mouth
like the water hitting to the floor. God, Rodney doesn’t even care that his
shoes are getting wet! Shit! 

“Wha...?”

“Say something. Tell me where they take you,” he says again, more kindly.
“Something.” And then, “I can’t stand this--the silence. It’s creeping
me out.”

“Oh.” 

Oh? “Colonel, are you--”

“Peachy.” Head tipped forward, Rodney can’t make out Sheppard’s face,
but the soft smile touching his lips doesn’t escape his notice. It’s almost
comforting. He glances at the burn. Almost. “It looks a-almost--like this
c-cell.”

Rodney waits a moment, and when he doesn’t say more, he prompts him with a
firm, “What? It does? Huh.” He probably should leave Sheppard the hell
alone, but--

“Yeah, just--bigger. There are chairs in there, like in a courthouse, n-not
really, but c-close.” A gasp, pained and real, and Rodney almost stops what
he’s doing, silently apologizing to the man in front of him for hurting him
more. He wishes himself far, far away, and not only because he would be safe
right now, but for Sheppard as well. He’d be better off with someone else,
anyone else here instead of him.

“Good, good, what else?” No answer. “Sheppard?” Still nothing, and oh,
welcome back, dear old friend we call horror.

“Hm...? Oh, sorry. ‘M still here.”

Rodney smacks his knees--gently--feeling the trembling rippling through him.
“Don’t do that!”

“Sorry, Rodney.”

“It’s--it’s okay.” It’s not. And the fact that the colonel is slurring
his words isn’t making this better. In fact, it pitches alarm and suspicion
into overdrive. Gripping Sheppard’s chin so he can get a better look at the
dark eyes, his breath catches in his chest. Both pupils are wide blown and not
responding as they probably should. A nervous itch forms at the back of his
neck, spreads. “Are you... did they drug you?”

Red-rimmed eyes blink sluggishly up at him. “Why?”

“Why? Well, duh, Colonel, you seem a little--,” he shakes his hand loosely,
“--woozy.”

“That... a medical term, Doctor McKay?” Sheppard’s smirk is a pale shadow
of its usual self, yet it’s sufficient to warm Rodney’s heart. Uh..

Doesn’t mean he’s up for games. Or distraction. “Did they?”

“They... burnt some herbs in the fire they used to--” he stops to swallow,
heavy eyes slipping shut and Rodney tightens his hold on the man’s jaw,
“--used to heat up the... the--anyway, the smoke had me a little
light-headed?” His frown is a little shaky, too. “Hey, I wondered ‘bout
that... hmm,” he slurs, chuckling. “Why ‘m I laughing, Rodney?” Oh yeah,
definitely high. Sort of. A short pause, then, “They asked me ‘bout a secret
chamber.”

Eyebrows spring upward like an overeager puppy. “Secret chamber?”

“Yes, very... Batman of ‘em, isn’t it?”

Rodney snorts, saying, “Rather Harry Potter, but ok. Uh... so. What secret
chamber?”

“That’s what I said,” Sheppard tells him with the intensity of the
drugged, holding up a finger. “After the... the one with Batman, which they
didn’t appra—appa—uh, which they didn’t really like, lemme tell you.”
He groggily wiggles that one outstretched finger, almost taking Rodney’s eye
out this time. Rodney grimaces. “Sorry, sorry... didn’t mean to... they...
they seem to think our buddies back at the v-village told--damn it.”  

Rodney lets go of his friend’s jaw when he notices the dark eyes leaking, lets
him bow his head to escape the light. Salvage parts of his dignity. Something
like that. Rodney can relate. The light and the drugs, well, yes, of course the
light isn’t that good for the pilot, considering the still-persisting
headaches and now. Covering Sheppard’s hand with his, he doesn’t flinch away
when the used water flushes over it, drenching him, too. It’s not that cold,
after all. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “shit, sorry. I wish there was
something--”

“‘S okay, gonna do what’cha got to do, right?” 

If it weren’t for the current situation, he’s sure he’d be complaining
about being interrupted again and again and how it’s always the case and what
messes that gets them into seeing as Sheppard just does not listen. Now, though,
now he just squeezes the hand in his tightly. Moving closer is the only way he
can catch the words when Sheppard speaks again--once again the flame of fury
burns bright in the night.

“Didn’t believe me when I... told ‘em we have no idea what they were
talking ‘bout.” 

Rodney wishes the flame would burn away the feeling of throwing up, too.
Bastards!

He doesn’t dare rouse Sheppard when the man eventually passes out or falls
asleep. It’s the kind thing to do, and with no head wound to speak of, it’s
not likely he’s going to end up as a vegetable. Grimacing, Rodney keeps
working, only stopping after he’s sure it’s been long enough. He can’t
remember how long you’re supposed to do that, ten minutes? Twenty? Maybe
somewhere in between. Maybe not. Careful of the burn, he pats the untouched skin
dry before he rouses him enough to get him back in bed, wrapping him into
blankets and sheets before letting him go back to sleep. Sheppard doesn’t
utter a single word during all of it. 

Ignoring the puddle of water on the floor, he puts away towel and bowl, finally
settling himself at the foot of the bed. One hand finds the colonel’s leg,
curling over it. He earned his a break, and Rodney’s going to make sure
he’ll get it. 


<lj-cut text="In the Life of Cookies, Part 3">*

With every questioning--toture session--more patches of skin turn ugly shades of
yellow and blue and sometimes purple. More red blood spills that turns black
where it dries. No more burns, though, which has Rodney embarrassingly grateful.
Sadly, the scientist is fairly sure that one of Sheppard’s ribs is broken,
too, or at least somewhat cracked. According to Sheppard, it’s just a bit
beaten up, and hey, since it’s his rib, he should damn well know. Ha! That
from the guy with a tolerance for pain that has Rodney almost fai--er, passing
out, of course that is what he means. Yes, yes, naturally. That his him almost
passing out. 

He’d say it’s just a cut if his arm was half ripped out of his socket, no
doubt, so hmm. No. Excuse him for not trusting Sheppard’s judgment, at least
not where the man’s own wellbeing is concerned. Geez, given what he pulled
during the time Rodney has known the soldier, he more than once asked himself
how Sheppard even made it this far. 

Truth is Sheppard isn’t getting better. They both aren’t. And those assholes
still don’t ask him any questions. Like he’s just a ghost in the middle of
this mess, a single overlooked spectator to a morbid show they want to break,
just in case they can’t break the other one. The fact relieves him as much as
it angers him, the comprehension shames him like few things can. Even more so
when looking at the battered body of said team leader, a team leader that is
also his friend. The days, however, are even worse on Sheppard’s mood than
they are on his health.

When the colonel’s mouth starts to bleed every time he tries to chew his food,
Rodney switches to turning blue almost-potatoes into blue
mashed-almost-potatoes, careful not to touch the messed-up wrists when he hands
over the day’s fork. He doesn’t dare offer to feed Sheppard. Not even though
he should, wrists looking raw, like they hurt like hell, worse thinking about
moving them. All the same, of course Sheppard is a stubborn son of a bitch, too
proud for his own good. Despite being stark naked in his company for weeks,
it’s the first time Rodney actually catches a glimpse of shame in those
familiar hazel eyes. 

How fucked up is that? Jesus. He doesn’t press the issue, though. Not just
yet.

And prays they’ll be long since out of here when the moment arrives that the
soldier can’t make himself hold the damn fork any longer.

Rodney doesn’t even complain--much--when he helps him to the bathroom to throw
up the blue stuff that has been their meal for too long now. Or wipe away the
blood seeping from nose or mouth. 

The morning two guards drag Sheppard into the cell, crudely disposing his limp
body face first on the stone floor, an iron ring closes around Rodney’s chest,
his throat, aching heart throbbing wildly in his blood. Too scared to care, he
doesn’t wait for the two guys to leave, leaping out of the bed and to the
ground in one fluid motion. Oh no, no, no, no, no, he pleads, suddenly
terrified. A fear that tastes of copper and bile and sweat. “No, no, no, no,
damn it.” Not aware that he’s blabbing out loud, he gropes for Sheppard’s
hand, snatching it out of the guard’s hold, doing God knows what, looping his
finger around the frail wrist. 

He sags in relief when a pulse jumps under his fingers, faint and uneven, but
there. Sheppard alive under the tips of his fingers, passed out, but thank God
alive. Rodney jumps when the door slams shut, not having noticed the guards
moving, let alone leave the room. Moving quickly, he checks for new wounds and
bruises on Sheppard’s backside and, after finding none, gently turning him
over. One hand on the man’s hip, the other on his shoulder, he pulls until the
limp weight follows his manipulations, rolling over and onto his back. 

The sight leaves him retching, stomach rebelling furiously in the faint hope
that blue eyes look away, just please look away. They don’t. The front of
Sheppard’s legs is littered with slim, angry red streaks, glaring right back
at Rodney in the cruel, ruthless light. This is how much you can’t do, they
say. Red against blue. A gruesome pattern continuing over hips, lower abdomen
and chest. The streaks merely differ in amount and intensity. A soft whimper
reaches his ear, and his head snaps up and around to Sheppard’s face. He’s
out cold. Rodney frowns. What? What’s going on now? 

It takes him a very long instant to register that the world around him blurs.
For a second he fears the gas is back, attacking and impacting their sight all
over again. He abandons that theory shortly when he hears the whimpering again,
to his horror realizing that the pathetic sound erupts from his very own throat,
something warm and wet trickling along rough cheeks. Marking them. Bowing his
head, he presses his forehead into Sheppard’s shoulder, angrily scrubbing at
his eyes. His cheeks.

Hunched over like this, for a moment he actually believes he’s going to lose
it. Fully convinced that this is the instant he’s going to snap, turning into
a slobbering, blubbering mess right there. 

Something else snaps instead. 

Something a little left to the middle of right, the absurd side of dangerous.

Exactly that makes him get to his feet at a speed he usually reserves for
life-threatening events, such as natives coming at him with speary or a glass of
lemon juice. Muttering to himself as he stalks into their little bathroom,
yanking the damned white bowl from under the sink, fills it with water all over
again. Rodney sifts through the towel he still doesn’t know what they are for,
but you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Which, really, translates into
biting his lips very, very hard every time their meal gets delivered. 

Shutting off the water, he hurries back to Sheppard’s side. Rodney works this
task like he does any other: quick, methodical, effective. A little in trance
and a lot focused. Drenching the towel with water, wringing it out hard till it
stops dripping. Scoots closer to the unconscious man, kneeling level with
Sheppard’s head, and folds the piece of fabric into a perfect square before he
shifts it to his forehead. Gently wiping away dried blood and sweat and grime,
down his cheeks and jaw and mouth, until his skin is skin again, not brown and
yellow-ish and a disgusting shade of orange. 

A large bruise covers the unnatural pale cheekbone, light purple and an ugly
yellow. Ripping his eyes away, Rodney cleanses the towel, rinses it, and folds
it again, wiping down Sheppard’s throat and--gently sliding a hand under his
head--the back of his neck. Cleaning something reeking that may or may not be
vomit. Rodney isn’t keen on finding out. He cleans Sheppard’s hands again,
the rope burns on wrists and ankles. He doesn’t look at his feet anymore, just
drenches them in water to clean them as best as possible, grateful that Sheppard
it still out. For the colonel sake and Rodney’s.

Swallowing a painful sob, like nails on a chalkboard, he moves to the rest of
him, hands tender but merciless as they move, patting the exposed and battered
skin dry every now and then so not to lose the little warmth there still is to
it. The man isn’t an iceberg per se, but it’s close, and the scientist
doesn’t want to risk him getting sick, doesn’t want to risk pneumonia. Now
that would be just great, a sure sign of death knocking on their door, if he
knows one. Sniffling, he angrily swabs at his eyes as a drop of salty water
pools and drops, splashing on the cold floor. 

The fabric of his pants absorbs it when he moves, never to be seen again, never
to be witnessed by a single someone. Forcing his breath to even, he carries on,
eyes still burning. 
 
Why he’s doing it, hell. Rodney, pauses for the fraction of a second. Good
question. 

He doesn’t know. Damn, some people would pay money to hear him utter those
words, wouldn’t they? Hell, some might even sell a kidney or two. Snorting
shakily, wetly, he swipes the dry piece of cloth over legs and hips, focused on
leaving the wounds alone. Huh. Maybe he is insane, maybe it’s actually the
backyard of insanity or the entrance hall to hell. The only thing he does know
for sure is he can't stop. His hands move on autopilot--swipe, pat, squeeze,
wring, swipe and pat and squeeze some more--like they have a mind of their own,
and Rodney’s oversized, genius brain isn’t quite with the program, unable to
override the system to take it offline.

The flame of hate is burning hot, dancing over skin and corroding his guts from
the inside out. It’s like acid burning in his eyes and tasting like copper and
iron and salt in the back of his throat. Trembling from exhaustion or fear or
anger, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care, rolls Sheppard onto his side, making
quick work of his back and legs. Breathe stuttering in his chest, he slowly,
oh-so-slowly, pulls the man up and braces him against his chest when Sheppard
slumps back to the floor. Oh no, no way Colonel, he thinks, breathing hard and
fast and broken. 

He feels the moment the man wakes. Feels it in tensing muscles, suddenly rigid
under his touch, making the holding onto the cooling, skinny body as enjoyable
as hugging a marble pillar. Right. “Shhh,” he whispers close to the man’s
ear when he moves to struggle against the restraints that are Rodney’s arms,
“it’s just me.”

Silence. “Rodney?”

“Yeah.” A little less wobbly, “Yes. It’s me, calm down.”

Another pause. “What are you doin’?”

“Getting you into bed.” And crying his eyes out like a baby, so... could you
please go back to sleep so I can make a fool out of myself without witnesses?

“‘M wet...”

“Yes, very good, Colonel, but believe me, not as wet as--”

“Why ‘m I wet?” Just ignores him. Petulant as a three-year-old. 

Rodney huffs. “Couldn’t let you go to bed as filthy as you were now, could
I?” 

“Hmm?”

If it wasn’t so sad, he’d been laughing at how... silly--adorable--Sheppard
is acting. Military leader of Atlantis, tough as nails USAF colonel--and as
cuddly as a teddy bear. A beat up and torn-apart teddy bear, mind you, but hey.
The analogy stands. Sue me! 

“Rodney?”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “yeah, I’m still here.”

“Are you...”

“I’m fine.” 

He doesn’t sound fine, not even to his own ears, so he doubts he’s
convincing anyone. Not with a voice rubbed raw on sandpaper. Closing his eyes
for a second, deep breath almost catching in his throat, then he’s back again,
not caring that his eyes are still leaking. It’s the light, really, it’s
terrible, will probably give him an eye condition. Later. He pats Sheppard’s
shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you to bed and under the covers.”

“Tryin’ to get me into bed after all, huh?”

It’s a weak attempt at a joke, as weak as the snort that goes with it, but
he’s so damn grateful that he barks a short, wet laugh. That---just for a
second, really, just a moment--he holds on tighter than essentially required.
Squeezing. “Yeah, sure. Come on, Kirk, time for a nap.” Sheppard doesn’t
call him on it.

“‘s what they all say...”

If someone later asks him how they manage, he doesn’t recall. He just, he
doesn’t know. It’s not there, missing. The important thing is that, yes,
between the both of them, they do manage to get the colonel settled on the bed,
spread out on his back, because he finds himself piling the blankets and sheet
and every single dry towel on top of him. Watching him curling into himself for
warmth. Dark eyes eventually focus in on him.

“You okay?”

“What?”

“Rodney?”

They whipped you, he wants to scream at the top of his lung, spitting the words
right into his face, they hurt you and you are asking me that?! He doesn’t. It
wouldn’t do a single damn good thing. Why bother? “I’m fine, Sheppard.”
Flat. That’s what the words are. Clipped. Angry. Not at Sheppard, not at him.
Never him. Not now.

Sheppard’s frown over the top of the blanket is only half visible. Doubt edged
deep into the lines. “You sure?”

“Yes. No one hurt me.” But, oh God, how it hurts to say those words out
loud. To hear them leave his mouth. They scrape his throat up just a little
more.

“Good.”

Is it? No. Of course it’s not. Rodney wants to laugh. Seeing him like this
makes Rodney wish to know where that stupid fucking secret chamber is,just for
the simple reason to tell them, tell them in all glory detail. To make tham
stop. A tiny, almost soundless whimper tears itself loose, tumbling from bitten
lips, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to keep the sob from following it
down, dropping to the floor like ugly stones. 

It’s Sheppard who looks away first. Dignity is a tricky thing, you see, but
what’s losing a little between friends? The air of confidence--arrogance--he
usually wears is torn so bad that it barely fits him anymore. Merely bits and
pieces still in place that keep him from completely flying apart at the seams.
That, his anger and the man lying there. Biting the soft webbing between thumb
and index finger, he fights to get his emotions back in check. Takes a minute,
but he gets it. 

“‘M tired,” he hears the colonel whispers, eventually.

“Then go back to sleep,” Rodney croaks. “It’s going to be over soon,
we’ll be out of here in no time at all.” That would be comforting if he
didn’t say the same sentence to himself over the span of days now. Days that
take on a look of ‘too long’ and ‘eternity’ far too clear.

“You will.”

Rodney’s head whirls around like spinner, wide eyes landing on the bundle of
flesh and bones under fabric. “Don’t say that!” Suddenly angry, he narrows
his eyes. “Don’t you dare, Sheppard!” God, please, please don’t say
things like that to me! 

“You’ll be fine, they’ll--”

“No! No! You don’t get to do this! Not now, not when we’re so close to see
Lorne blow this shitty hole apart, watch Ronon and Teyla beat those dimwits into
bloody pulps. Are you listening to me, Sheppard?” He jabs a finger into what
he thinks is a shoulder. “You don’t get to do this!”

“You don’t know that.”

“What? Oh. Yes, yes, I know. Genius remember? I know everything. Now stop
being a stupid, overdramatic, little girl, you bastard. And what about your
undeserved sense of optimism, Colonel We-don’t-leave-our-people-behind
Sheppard? Hmm? What about me? Are you planning on leaving me here?!”

“The optimism? ‘M thinking it might have... been lost during the... the last
few days...”

“Then find it again, damn it! I’m the one saying we’re doomed, and
you’re the stupid grunt with the stupid hair to argue!” Taking a shallow
breath, he forces himself to lower his voice. The yelling just gives him a
headache. “Just, please, please don’t leave me here alone--”

“Won’t be ‘lone...”

“What?” A thought hits him then, and something inside him snaps. “Oh hell,
no. Are you even listening to me, you son of a bitch? You. Are. Not. Getting.
To. Do. This.” He emphasizes every word with a stab to the man’s…shoulder.
Arm. Whatever. “You are not going to leave me here with a corpse. What you are
going to do is hold on, because I know, I know they have to get here soon. Radek
figured it out. He may not be as smart as I am, and ha, who is? But he is
tremendously less stupid than the average so-called scientist with a supposed
PhD or three working for me. So, no, you will not fucking die on me or I’m
going to tell everyone how long it really takes you to get your hair to stick up
like it does.”

“Someone ever tell you... that you should not sp-speak ill of the dead?”

“Yes, shall we arrange for you not to die then, hmm? Given my famous concern
with something as irrelevant as tact?” No dying, here, I’ll make sure of
that. He isn’t sure how he’s going to pull that off, but he will. Rodney
loves challenges after all, and he beats the odds more times than not. And more
times than anyone else, he makes even the impossible possible.

Sheppard laughs quietly. “Hell of a pep talk there, buddy,” he whispers
softly, tired. So, so tired. 

It’s a ‘thank you’ and ‘I know’ and a ‘me too’ all wrapped into
one sarcastic statement. A single look. Clumsily, he pats Sheppard’s shoulder.
“Hmm. Yes, that’s me. Resident genius, miracle worker and grade A pep-talk
giver.” A faint snort from below the blankets, and Rodney smiles the first
genuine smile since a very long time. “Go back to sleep.” Cleaning up for
what feels like the millionth time during the last weeks, he splashes cold water
into his face, erases the tracks of salt and grime, the blood on his hands.
Sheppard’s blood. 

Sheppard is a shivering, quivering mass under the blanket when he gets back. The
position must be hell on his injuries, but Rodney knows cold. Cold to a the
point were it’s not the pain that’s harder to take, but the feeling of not
getting warm. Ever again. Stopping in his tracks, shaking his head. Stupid
colonel. Stupid, stupid colonel. Stupid fucking Pegasus galaxy. He smiles
against his will as he moves closer. A few strands of hair have managed to worm
their way out from beneath the covers. Stupid hair, too. 

For a second or a minute he stands there, not sure what to do or say. 

And makes up his mind. 

Sheppard needs warmth. And the only thing warmer than the average rock is, well,
Rodney. Huffing, he sits at the edge of the bed, slips off shoes and tugs on the
blanket. Sheppard grumbles once, not letting go, murmuring a drowsy, “Go
‘way.” 

Rodney rolls his eyes. How very mature. Pulls, and does it again until dark eyes
glower at him over the edge, daring him to do it again or say something. “You
need to get warm,” he says, reasonable, “move over.”

“Wha…?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, move.”

“But...’m--”

“Naked? Hurt? Bloody? Yes, yes, I know all this, believe me, and I expect
plenty compensation for the generous sacrifice I’m about to make once we get
back to Atlantis, let me tell you. Preferably in the form of chocolate bars and
coffee, and don’t even try to pull off your ‘I don’t know what you’re
talking about’ shit, Colonel, I know you must have a secret stash. One you
never shared with me, by the way. But for now, I don’t give a damn about your
delicate sensibilities, so shut up and move your skinny ass over.”

“Knew you were after my ass all along, McKay...,” he mumbles, gradually
uncurling, “and my ass ‘s not skinny.”

“Yes, of course, that is one of my goals in life. A Nobel, and a night warming
up your skinny, excuse me, battered ass in bed.”

Grumbling and muttering, worming his way into the depth of Sheppard’s cocoon,
tugging the end back under him. Tight fit doesn’t cover it, especially when
Sheppard plasters his long body cautiously along Rodney’s side, head resting
heavy against his shoulder. He stays still for a second, then very slowly moves
an arm and a leg so he can pull him in closer without putting pressure on the
cuts and bruises. The burn. 

Sheppard gasps softly and Rodney says, “Sorry, sorry...”

“Shhh.” 

“Sheppard...”

“Shhh!”

“Stop shushing me! I’m not a fucking dog!”

“Hmm.” Rodney feels a grin against his shoulder, warm, moist puffs of breath
through the shirt, stupid hair that tickles his throat. It’s uncomfortable
like hell. Rodney squirms. It should be, but it isn’t, not really. Spiky, damp
hair against his shoulder, warm puffs of breath on cotton clad skin. No, not
really. “Have to come soon.”

He doesn’t ask who, he knows. Instead he bends his arm and curls it around his
friend’s cold form--so damn cold--hand eventually finding the back of the
man’s neck. Squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs into
dark curls, hiding his face. Because even though he hates those fucking word, he
hates the quiet more and there is nothing else to say. God damn, how much he
hates the quiet. “It’s going to be okay. They’ll be here soon, and then
you can watch them blow this hellhole up.” 

“...cool...”

He doesn’t dare roll his eyes at the expected--wished--retort. “‘Course it
is. You wouldn’t want to miss out on that, hmm?”

“Nah...”

Rodney squeezes his neck, thumb drawing lazy circles on the rough skin. “Go to
sleep. I promise to wake you up so you won’t miss out on the fun.”

“Hmm, ‘kay.” He could swear he feel the flutter of long lashes through the
shirt. “Trust you.” 

With Sheppard like this, shivering and trembling in his arms, he swears that
he’s not going to let them take him, not again. He isn’t quite sure how
he’s going to pull it off, but God knows, he will. Rodney’s not going to let
him down.


*

He wakes at one point, not remembering falling asleep at all, to the soft sound
of a gasps, something heavy pressing on his shoulder and another that tickles
his face--shit! Reality comes crashing down so fast that his back aches as he
jumps, barely refraining from bolting upward, consecutively startling Sheppard
out of the man’s restless sleep. Startles him so much, in fact, that he gets a
forearm to his throat and a leg pinning his own to the bed as a reward.
Sheppard’s dark eyes are wild, no recognition in them in any way. It should
scare him, shouldn’t it? It doesn’t. 

Both of their breathing are overly loud in his ears, bouncing off the walls,
Sheppard’s ragged and harsh sliding across his face as he stares him down with
unseeing eyes. Then all menace and hostility trickles out of him like the blood
from before, drop by agonizing drop till the soldier settles limp and shivering
against Rodney’s side. “Rodney.”

He can feel the man trembling. If it’s the cold again or something else,
Rodney isn’t sure he wants to know. “Yeah. Yeah it’s, uhm, me. Are
you--” Okay? Hurting? Dying? “--cold?”

“Nah, just cool.”

Rodney doesn’t bother to hide the snort, and the chuckle either as Sheppard
shrugs sheepishly. “I am sure to tell that to Carson.”

“Hmm.”

God he isn’t good at this. At this comforting consoling shit. But. There’s
nothing he can do, nothing he can fix, because he sure as hell can’t fix
Sheppard and that’s the only thing he wants to have fixed. Needs to. Now.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he leans his cheek close to the colonel’s head, just
breathing for a while. Counting the time it takes for John’s heartbeat to slow
to a safe, soothing cadence, a known regularity just about lulling him back to
sleep. Maybe it helps. This closeness. He’s not egotistical enough to think it
really does make a difference, but maybe a little bit. 

A distant memory comes to him through the haze that is a half asleep brain and
blood tainted with fear. The closeness of a small, comfortingly warm body, the
touch of tiny fingers in his own. The kindness of another human being, so alike
and still so different--someone so very far away now--light years--and not just
measured in time and galaxies.

“What did you dream of?” he whispers. Like a secret he doesn’t dare share
with a single soul, not even the emptiness of this prison, just them.

As anticipated, Sheppard tenses, heart speeding up all over again. “Lollipops
and candy canes,” he says after what is a too long time to be true. Not that
he’d believe the crap in the first place. “Couple of supermodels in the
middle of a... a sunny field. Naked.”

What does he expect? He’s John Sheppard after all. And in a perverse,
fanatical point of view, he’s happy about it. That after all what happened,
John’s still, well, John. “I’m sure you were.” Playing along, he asks,
“Some of them doing the glowy thing?”

Sheppard laughs softly. “Lollipops... or the girls?”

“Oh, I don’t know, both?”

“Nope, no glowing... at all. Had enough... of that...”

Oh, ha. “Yes, yes, definitely not disagreeing with you on that, Kirk. It’s a
relief the mop of hair didn’t suffocate every single brain cell under
there.”

“Leave my... hair out of it, McKay.”

“Huh, let me think. How about... no?”

“Figured. Worth a... try...”

“It would be to you, unsurprisingly, you stubborn heroic moron, you.” Eyes
prickling again, it’s about time that they get out of here, or his eyes will
take severe damage from the glaring lights. And not just his eyes, seeing how
tight his chest feels, how choked up his throat. Sheppard’s doesn’t hear the
hitch of breath, the forced calm breathing, falling back to sleep. Maybe he just
chooses not to notice, Rodney doesn’t know.

Holding his friend close, he’s not far behind.


*

Gunfire is splitting the air, harsh and loud and oddly familiar. Screaming and
yelling and...

Comfort.

And that’s... insane. Is it not?

It’s a dream, Rodney thinks. A beautiful, tempting dream, but a dream
nonetheless. Only he wouldn’t think that if he were asleep, right? Rodney
frowns. The noises around him get louder and clearer with every beat of his
heart, every second his self soars to awareness. Still there, the sounds.
Rodney’s eyes snap open so fast and wide that the light leaves him blind and
blinking water away for a minute. When the white blindness crawls from the
blurry edges of his sight and the dizziness settles along his stomach, he’s
convinced it’s not a simple cruel trick his mind is playing on him. 

Pins and needles slay him like he gets stabbed with a knife--in three places at
once--when he carefully moves an arm, a leg. Sheppard doesn’t stir, but the
sound of gunfire and yelling--familiar to a degree--is getting louder even now.
Blatant. His pulse picks up. There’s this huge lump of emotions stuck in his
throat. Rodney simply doesn’t know if he’s going to laugh or cry if it ever
gets cut loose. 

Cupping the back of the colonel’s neck, he threads pale fingers through the
sticky, damp mess--his hands, they are shaking, he observes detached. The burst
of a P-90 shatters the short period of silence, painting a smile on his lips.
Ignoring the pins and needles feeling, he twist and turns so he can bow his head
towards Sheppard’s, lips nearly brushing an ear. “Wake up, Colonel
Sleepyhead. We’re going home,” he whispers, voice catching slightly. “The
cavalry is here.”

“Tired.”

“I know, but you don’t want to miss the blowing up part, do you?”

“Promised to wake me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah I did. I promise you can sleep when we’re back, John, now you
have to keep awake.”

“Back... where?”

“Atlantis, where do you think?”

“Oh, that’s... that’s good... hate the desert.”

Desert? That doesn’t make a lot of sense, so Rodney just squeezes his
friend’s neck again. They are out of here soon enough and Carson will make
sure the brain isn’t leaking out of the colonel’s ears. “No desert,” he
assures, “Lots of water, I promise. It’s gonna be okay now, you’ll
see.”

“Yeah...”

He has Sheppard sitting up, blanket hanging loosely around his shoulder and
Rodney’s arm draped around in a heartbeat. To keep the layers in place,
that’s why, he tells himself and everyone who dares to ask. No one does, when
the door eventually flies open, a young marine freezing in the doorway, gun
raised and pointed at his potential target. Until he realizes who the target is,
hurriedly calling for someone, probably a doctor. If he possesses a brain, that
is.

“Sirs, it’s good to see you both alive,” the soldier says.

“Barely,” Rodney snaps, glowering.

Major Lorne is there a second later, Ronon, Carson, and Teyla hot on his heels.
“Colonel, Dr. McKay.”

“What the hell took you so long?” Rodney snaps, because... because it’s
him and he can’t help himself. 

“He’s... got a point there, Major. It’s... about time... you showed...
up...,” Sheppard breathes.

Lorne gives them both a tight smile. “We ran into a little trouble...”

“Of course you did,” he mocks, glaring at a nurse when she settles at his
side and takes his hand. “Are you blind and stupid? What am I saying? Of
course you are or you wouldn’t bother me and instead be busy doing something
actually useful.”

“Rodney...” He turns his eyes back to Sheppard. “Be nice.” 

Rolling his eyes, Rodney isn’t going to dignify that with a reply. Instead,
his glare zooms in on two grunts standing around, staring stupidly around the
cell. “You two,” he goes on to say, pointing, “don’t stand around like
the brain-dead morons you apparently are, and get some blankets. Do I speak
Mandarin, use words with too many syllables, what? Move. Shoo.” They don’t.
What they actually do, is throw a wary glance Lorne’s way. The major nods--ha!
at least one person with half a brain!--and apparently that’s what they are
waiting for, since they are scrambling away like naughty children Rodney caught
with their hands down the cookie jar. 

Rodney scoffs. And those idiots call themselves marines. Tsk.

“So? What’s your excuse for taking so long again?” He jumps as a small
hand lands on his arm, about to make his irritation on being bothered yet again
known and only relaxing--slightly--when he recognizes Teyla. She has taken the
nurse’s place crouching at his side, one hand covering his wrist, the other
curling around his upper arm.

“Doc Zelenka had to do something to the ‘jumpers. We found the radios soon
enough, but passed over the area three times before we actually picked something
other than wildlife up on the life sign detector.”

“Pure luck, if you ask me.” Ronon. Of course. But he is probably right. 

A gentle squeeze to his wrist. Teyla tilts her head slightly, eyeing him and the
colonel with obvious concern. “I believe Ronon is right. We were certainly
very lucky to find you, but we did and that is what matters, is it not?”

Yes. Probably. Maybe. Shaking his head, he doesn’t really know. He doesn’t
want to. “I guess.”

“Rodney?” He would recognize Beckett’s brogue anywhere.

Slowly, he turns his head to needle the man with a glare. To be met with an
oddly soft look. “What?”

“Can you let go? We need to get him out of here.”

Frowning, he follows Carson’s eyes downward. The hand on Sheppard’s arm
looks like his, yet it doesn’t feel that way. “Oh. I... I forgot.” When he
loosens his grip, the colonel’s body slips away, warmth leaving his side. All
of a sudden he’s feeling disjointed, not really there.

“It’s all right, Rodney,” Carson is saying, somewhere from afar, gentle,
so, so gentle, “but I want you and him on a ‘jumper and back in the
infirmary as quickly as possible.”

Rodney is just vaguely aware that Lorne radios someone somewhere. That someone
else comes around with a make-shift stretcher and blankets, more talking when
they whisk Sheppard away. He isn’t all there until he somehow is again,
finding himself outside the cell with Teyla and no idea how he got there. He
stops in the middle of the long, dark hallway, the high stone walls towering
over him.

“Doctor McKay?” Teyla. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m not!” There’s no real sting in his words. No force.
“Just... just a moment.” And then he’s on his way back, the opposite
direction they were going up till now, good thing there’s no way to get lost
because it’s only going this way or the other, so it isn’t hard to find the
way back. And not that long at all. 

“Doctor McKay.” But he doesn’t stop, forcing one foot in front of the
other. He isn’t going to be lulled by the soft concern in Teyla’s voice. He
can't let that go. “Rodney. Please, we need to--” 

He rounds the next corner and the one after that and sags in relief when he
finds the goal of his march a few feet in front of him. Talking to a marine.
Lorne excuses himself when he sees Rodney stumbling toward him, the major’s
face tightens at what he probably reads on his face. Rodney doesn’t care. He
almost loses his foot hold on the last step, almost stumbling into the man,
Lorne’s fast reflexes the only thing keeping him from going down. He and Teyla
share a look over his head, which, come on. Not a child here! 

“Rodney, what are you still doing here?”

“I... I need to ask you... Major...”

Lorne’s eyes narrow with concern. Or maybe it’s annoyance. He doesn’t give
a damn. “What is it, doc?” 

“Did you happen to find the leader of the nefarious bunch of retarded jealous
ridden sadistic fuckups?”

Another look shared with Teyla and Rodney wants to scream and stomp his feet. He
doesn’t. That really would be childish. Instead, he bites his lips and stares
directly at the man, not taking his eyes off or avoiding the inquiring gaze.
“Uh, yes, why?”

“What--,” he painfully clears his throat, licks dry lips, “--what happened
to him?” And it’s not a surprise that Lorne hesitates. Tenses very subtle.
He doesn’t have the nerves to play games nor is he particularly patient. Not
that he’s ever patient, but today he’s especially not patient. Justifiably
so. “Oh for Christ’s sake! You do realize that I have the damn authorization
to read the mission report, don’t you Major? Spare me the five minutes to got
over it tomorrow so I can actually do something useful, like take a bath and eat
and sleep and trying not to die and tell me now.”

There’s still doubt in his eyes, and Rodney is about to take another deep
breath to tell him where he can stuff his military whatever shit from now on, so
he almost misses the soft spoken words when Lorne finally does speak up. 
“He’s dead, Rodney,” the major says, taking a step or two closer and
squeezing his arm. “He tried to activate some kind of weapon when we found
him, so...” They had no other choice but to take him out, Rodney finishes the
sentence in his mind.

Oh. “Oh.” 

Oh!

The fight goes out of him like air out of a leaky tire, deflating and leaving
him weak and spent and feeling over a hundred years old. Hurting all over.
Adrenaline is a very odd thing, indeed. Lorne must see something in his face,
maybe, because he steps closer even, guiding him to lean on the wall. He gives
the man a tight nod and a tighter smile. “Good.”

Lorne straightens, visibly taken aback. What for, Rodney can’t say. Hell,
didn’t he just see what they did to Sheppard? Didn’t he see that--gulping
the word and the fear and the anger down like a bitter cocktail. Acid. He tries
another smile--see? I am totally fine! I am!--but it might as well be a horrid
grimace. He manages a tinny “thank you” before he turns and hurries away.
Down the corridor and toward freedom, not carrying that Teyla catches up with
him--she’s Teyla after all--or that he’s probably more rude than usual,
ignoring everything else around him. 

The ‘jumper takes off as soon as they are strapped in, heading for the
Stargate, toward home. Yet, Rodney has eyes for nothing beside the team leader
Carson is fussing over. 

“How is he, Doctor Beckett?”

He jumps when Teyla’s voice comes from right next to him, but he could kiss
her, because he isn’t sure he could bring the words over his own lips. Not
now.

“Not good, lass, but he will be better soon.”

“So he’s going to be okay?” 

Carson’s eyes barely flicker his way. “Aye, Rodney, he’s going to be just
fine.” 

Nodding sharply and that being all he wants to know, doesn’t fight this time
to keep his eyes open. Doesn’t open them till they get through the gate and
back home, not even when a nurse, someone, starts to poke and prod him, sticking
a needle in his arm. He snaps at however happens to be at the wrong place at the
wrong time and he swears he feels Teyla smile from beside him. “We are going
to be back home shortly, Rodney.”

See, he thinks to himself, told you we’d make it, Colonel.


*

They keep him in the infirmary for two days.

Two days that were long and boring and painful and informative--as if he gives a
damn about why they were kidnapped, not really--and of course enough to complain
about until Carson finally had enough and threw him out, sent him back to his
quarters and his bed. Think Rodney would be happy about that, right? 

Wrong! 

Wrongwrongwrong. So damn wrong. Why?

That evil voodoo wannabe physician banned him from going to the labs. 

That’s right. His labs.

No. Work. 

Rodney had groused and grumbled and painted gruesome pictures as to what his
staff would come up with in the meantime to wreak havoc in a minute--or a
second, mind you--of hard-to-believe-but-not-really idiocy and in all likelihood
blow up the city on the side. Or sink it. When Carson still hadn’t budged,
he’d told him that would be all his fault. Then, well, then he’d fled to his
room before Beckett could change his mind and stick that pointy needle in his
arm instead of Sheppard’s. Never argue with the people jabbing sharp, pointy
objects at you. A rule Rodney lives by. Most of the time. Sometimes. Hmm. 

That had been over a week ago, and it had taken a lot of wheedling and dropping
subtle and not-so-subtle hints left and right and the middle and right into
Carson’s lap. Now he had the go-ahead to finally go back to work. Despite
Radek and his bringing Rodney up to date on everything and nothing--the most
important things, you see--he’s antsy to get back. Mentally rubbing his hands
at the prospects of given the lot a verbal beat down makes him smile. Not that
he’s ever going to admit it, but he almost missed that time of the day. Gives
him a rush that even pure sugar couldn’t compare to. 

But that is tomorrow, it’s late at night in the here and now. 

The lights of the infirmary are dimmed like they are every night, a layer of a
soft humming hush warmly wrapping over everything and everyone. There aren’t
many people around. Which suits Rodney just fine ever since he came down here
that second night after they let him out, and he couldn’t fall asleep. Biting
his lips, he sneaks on, slipping quietly around corners and lastly behind the
privacy curtain he’s come to know. Holding his breath for a second. When
nothing moves on the other side, no one having a go at him for being here when
he clearly shouldn’t be, he lets out a sigh of relief, straightening the
curtains.

When he turns, the object of his concentration, his thoughts, these days is fast
asleep, shadows playing over the slack face. White sheets blanketing a familiar
body, hiding cuts and bruises and the white dressings covering them from
Rodney’s prying eyes. The bruise on his cheek is almost gone, barely more than
a pale shade of yellow, but he still winces when he lays eyes upon it in the
daylight. And that’s just the thing. It’s easier to do this at night. To
come here. Less problematic, less painful. Less likely to choke him with
helplessness all over again in the bright lights of the day.

Or maybe that’s not it. He feels helpless sitting in the chair staring at the
sleeping colonel now, too, it’s just a little more private. A little less
obvious. A curtain of darkness he can hide behind. So he comes to the infirmary
during nocturnal hours, sitting with Sheppard for a while before he returns to
his quarters and his bed, eventually falling into a restless sleep. He tried not
to. Tried to stay in bed and force his mind offline, to sleep. It worked for an
hour or so, only to be jerked right back by what Rodney refuses to call
nightmares. The one night he stayed away, he was a wreck the following day.

He didn’t try to resist after that, letting his feet lead him here.

Gulping, Rodney rocks on his heels before he shuffles toward his chair, eyes
never leaving Sheppard’s still form.

“Take a picture, McKay, it’ll last longer.”

He jumps, but so doesn’t squeak like a girl, clamping a hand over his mouth,
heart racing like mad in his chest. Whirling to face Sheppard, a smirking
Sheppard, he gives him the darkest glower he can manage. Sheppard isn’t
impressed. Rodney huffs. Of course he isn’t, that cocky bastard. “What the
hell, Colonel? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” he hisses. Anger is
better to work with than fear, easier to deal with, so he clings to it. Clings
to it like a lifeline. “Kill my invaluable brain by bursting a vessel or
two?!”

“Yeah, McKay, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Killing the guy that
nine out of ten times saves everyone’s asses, including mine.”

“Ha, I do, don’t I?” Oh he can do gloating, no matter how angry he is--or
scared. It’s a gift, really, only it’s not and he can’t. It’s
distraction. A glance at the colonel tells Rodney that Sheppard is thinking the
same thing. They are silent for a few minutes, Sheppard eyeing him expectantly,
waiting for him to say something, probably. He isn’t going to. Obviously John
comes to the same understanding after another long, awkward minute of shared
silence.

“What are you doing here, McKay? You should be asleep, getting your strength
up so you can yell at your team properly in the morning.”

“I... I was sleeping...”

“But?”

“I... don’t know. I just, I guess I wanted to make sure that, you know, you
were here.” He shrugs, self-conscious, thankful for the low lights as he feels
the back of his neck heat up. It sounded stupid out loud, so darn stupid and
childish. He’s a genius, the smartest man in two galaxies, he shouldn’t feel
either way. “I... you--that you were okay.”

He expects Sheppard to laugh, to quip a joke, something. He doesn’t, and it
scares Rodney more than anything. “I get it, I do, but I’m fine, Rodney, I
promise you, I’m fine, and I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. But you
can’t keep doing this.”

“What...?”

“You know what.” Rodney crosses his arms. No he doesn’t. “You do. I know
you’ve been here every night since Beckett threw you out,” he says
ruthlessly, not condemning, simply stating the facts. And Rodney sits up a
little straighter. “I just didn’t say anything because I thought this would
run its course and stop.”

The heat on his face flares. “I... uh, I didn’t--I mean, I didn’t want to
wake you or bother you and--”

“Shut up, Rodney.” Rodney snaps his mouth shut, clenches his jaw a little
too tight, but he manages to keep silent. “Good. Now, I damn well know that
you did everything you could back there, you watched over me and you did good.
Always talking and talking some more and keeping us grounded.” Sheppard smiles
fondly. “Sometimes there’s nothing to do but dig your heels in and hope and
wait. You know that. You need to let it go and move on. It’s over.”

But that’s not where Rodney’s head is. “That’s right, I watched.” He
doesn’t sound like himself and by God he wishes he could take it back. Take it
back and wipe and scrub away the blatant proof and data of how weak, how
pathetic he really is. How ugly the words are.

Sheppard just stares for a long minute, making him want to squirm under the
watchful, curious eyes. Rodney isn’t certain Sheppard can make out his face in
the dark, but he is certain that whatever expression is on there, he isn’t
eager to share. Not even with Sheppard. Especially not Sheppard. “Christ,
McKay,” he says, scrubbing hands roughly over his face, “you don’t have to
feel guilty--,” Rodney flinches, “--you don’t have anything to feel guilty
about. There was nothing you could have done.”

Rodney nods, but his heart isn’t in it. 

“Rodney...”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Only it’s not and when he knows it, John knows it
probably too.

“It’s not,” Sheppard echoes his thoughts. “What would have happened if
they had taken you, too? What good would it do? What would have happened to me?
You don’t have to be a genius to figure it out, Rodney, and like you’ve been
keen to remind us every damn hour, you are just that. Switch on that big brain
of yours.”

“But...”

Sheppard’s voice is hard when he speaks next, leaving no room for arguments,
but his eyes are kind. A lot kinder than he’s used to. Probably the drugs
Carson’s giving him. The good drugs, that sadistic little Scottish shit. “No
buts. I know how it is, Rodney, I’ve been there, but you have to let it go.
Like I said. It’s over.”

Rodney nods and nods some more, saying “okay,” and “yes,” and “I
know,” although he doesn’t think he does and he just can’t stop. Sheppard
catches his wildly flailing hands, looping cool fingers around one wrist. He can
barely admit to himself, but it’s the moment he can breathe again without
feeling like something missing, no trace of unease choking him. “Okay,” he
says again, still hoarse but stronger.

Saying, “Cool,” Sheppard lets go of him. The feeling of calm leaves with his
touch. “Now go back and get some shut-eye. You look like crap.”

“Thanks, no really, thank you Colonel. That’s what I really needed to
hear.” 

Sheppard’s smirk widens. “Always at your command, McKay.”

“Of course you are.” He rolls his eyes. “Go back to sleep, Colonel. I’m
going to go on and further plot my glorious return to my kingdom in the
morning.”

“You do that.” Standing up, he has one hand on the curtain when Sheppard
speaks again. “And McKay.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he sees the man reach for something in his night
stand, throwing said something at him a moment later. Somethings. Rodney huffs
and puffs and clumsily juggles the two objects till he gets a grip on both
instead of dropping them right away. His brows shot up in surprise when he sees
what they are. 

A small case of chocolate bars a cup of coffee flavored pudding. 

Honest to God chocolate bars. And pudding.

Oh Christ. Rodney feels his eyes prickle at the sight, a stupid grin sneaking up
on him. It’s runny and shaky and he has no idea where it’s coming from.
“Were you holding out on me, Sheppard?” he croaks, teasing, holding up the
case of Snickers. Honest to God Snickers! 

Sheppard stares back, unwaveringly serious. “Thanks,” he says, never taking
his eyes of Rodney’s. 

And Rodney says, “You’re--you’re welcome,” and “thanks,” while
tripping over his tongue and feet, feeling like he’s saying the wrong things.
But it’s not about the Snickers or the pudding and the distraction. It’s
about more than that. With a little wave and a smile he flees the infirmary and
the wrath and clutches of one Carson Beckett and his spiteful little helpers
with his sweet, precious prize. 

Back in his quarters, Rodney puts away the chocolate bars before munching on his
pudding, carefully twisting the lid off the cup. Plopping down on his scrunched
up sheets, he spoons the creamy substance into his mouth, dumbly grinning at one
of the Ancient’s wall attachments they still have no clue as to what they
actually were designed for. Probably nothing. In the middle of staring, Rodney
mentally pats himself on the back. Brilliant ideas popping into his head of how
he’s going to torment the science division in the morning to celebrate his
epic return. Sugar and total bliss prone to be responsible for the sheer
brilliant inspiration he finds there, the flavor of rich, dark coffee bursting
on his tongue. A little like culinary fireworks. 

For the first time since their return to the city Rodney falls asleep without
jerking awake every few minutes, wondering where John is, if they will bring him
back. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen, either their rescue or--letting
it go, letting it go. Yes, totally letting it go. Maybe, hmm, maybe he’ll
record his annual beat down and show it to the colonel later in the day. He’s
sure the man will appreciate some distraction from the gray, boring infirmary
routine, possibly even getting some fun out of it.

Rodney grins. Exactly.


~FIN~

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