Symbiosis, by kodiak bear
Apr. 9th, 2006 09:18 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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sga_flashficTitle: Symbiosis
Author: kodiak bear
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: T (for innuendo)
Challenge: This Is Not Happening
Spoilers: None
Word count: 9,000 +
Summary: Shep gets sick, but in Atlantis, it's never as simple as a common cold.
AN: Thanks Linzi for the quick beta! I wish I could blame the final errors on someone else, but anything remaining belongs to me.
Symbiosis
If the universe was governed by a practical joker, then he wanted it to be known, for posterity and public record, that Rodney McKay, Ph. D (among other things), was sick of being the maker’s personal slapstick pull-out. Need a laugh – thhheeerrrreeee’s McKay!
He’d spent the majority of his first two and a half decades fighting for recognition. Then he’d gotten it, finally, and earned a one-way (at the time) ticket to a new galaxy. Initially, his thoughts might generally have been ‘LOOK – new toys’, until they discovered the life sucking vampires, bug infestations, and a general danger level equivalent to being an opossum crossing the freeway to get home to his favorite tree…every night. So, Rodney thought that the fact that his life incredibly sucked was established well enough; he really didn’t see the need for the continual insult of a shit poor ATA gene to heap more midden on the pile. Carson was supposed to be smart – why hadn’t he managed to create a superior gene retrovirus? This – he lifted a spherical object – was not superior. It should’ve responded to his mental command…no, it should’ve JUMPED at his mental command. The fact that the two ends of opaque glass remained dark and dead proved that he was the cosmic equivalent to Gallagher’s watermelon.
And where was Sheppard? Rodney glanced at his screen. The clock, in Atlantis time, showed the Colonel was almost an hour late for their ‘clap on, clap off’ session. He scowled at the sphere, as if intimidation would work where determination had failed.
Irritation, his semi-constant companion, grew. Tapping the ear piece, McKay called curtly, “Sheppard?”
He waited. And waited. Five minutes later, Weir answered, “Rodney – I thought John was with you?”
“Elizabeth, I gave up my fascination with playing walkie talkies before puberty…which means, I’m not calling him to play ‘can you hear me now’. Unless he’s shifted into another dimension, which considering where we’re at isn’t such a far leap – he’s not here.”
The problem with the radios is that just about all the higher ups wore them, constantly. Weir, Sheppard, Beckett, Zelenka, McKay, Teyla; even Ronon had reluctantly caved to peer pressure. This meant, unless you planned ahead and agreed on a different frequency for clandestine conversation, everyone was listening in.
“A little less sarcasm, and a bit more explanation, Rodney,” scolded Weir.
He rolled his eyes and realized the only one that benefited from his theatrics was Zelenka, who had pulled his attention away from the other large object in the room undergoing the ‘let’s turn it on and pray it won’t infect, maim or explode’ experimentation.
“He’s not here, Elizabeth; he’s apparently not responding to the radio – would you like me to draw a diagram?”
Maybe if he hadn’t been in such a snit over the failure of his gene…again…maybe he would’ve dialed back the acidic bite of his normally caustic attitude – this was Elizabeth, after all. She handed out mission assignments. In her hands hung the decision between sending him to swamp world vs. bikini world. Rodney would infinitely prefer a trip to bikini world, where the biggest flying object was a seagull…well, it looked more like a flying penguin on the MALP’s transmission –
“I think maybe you should go looking for John.” Her voice came through the radio, and it was cold enough to freeze the fluid left in his inner ear from the cold he’d caught last week.
Casting a brief glare at Zelenka, who quickly turned back to the screen scrolling with diagnostic information on his lap, Rodney tapped the ear piece and muttered, “Of course, Timmy.” That was it exactly. She expected him to be Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Old Yeller and any other stupid hound dog. He’d just go sniff the halls, and find Sheppard…sniff the halls and find…a grin crooked his lips and McKay called, “Ronon -”
A few moments later, and the Runner’s breathless voice grunted, “Find him yourself, McKay – Teyla’s teaching me some new moves.”
McKay snorted. “I just bet she is.”
“If you would like to join us, Rodney -”
Scornfully, McKay said, “No – you and Conan get hot and sweaty and -” the crooked grin reasserted himself. “Hey – that’s…kind of hot.”
A new voice cracked, “Rodney, it’s nice you’re addressing your inner pervert – now find Sheppard. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago for his vitamin booster. The lad’s running low since he shed his Iratus self.”
The harsh reply stalled on McKay’s tongue, because A – Sheppard had agreed to be his ‘boy toy’ for two hours, turning recalcitrant technology on and off at Rodney’s whim; he was an hour late, which meant that technically, he still had dibs on the spiky haired gene bearer for another hour; and B – he had agreed to drop in on Beckett during their prearranged time, thereby cutting McKay’s time short, and then he’d stood both of them up!
“Fine,” he bitched to no one in particular, and all of them, at the same time. “But for the record, I am no one’s Labrador.”
OoO
An hour later and Rodney was beginning to wish he had a Labrador. This was ridiculous. He’d looked in Sheppard’s quarters, and not only was it locked (what – did the guy worry someone was going to steal his copy of War and Peace?), but by the time he’d finagled the crystals to release the door, Sheppard had missed an appointment with Heightmeyer.
Granted, Rodney could understand missing that particular appointment. Ever since he’d gone all buggy, and then returned to normal Sheppard form, they’d made him go to Kate and discuss the base inner urges of the Iratus life. John had confessed to him over bacon that the urges were pretty simple. Eat and hide. Occasionally kill. It was the occasionally kill that made Rodney slide just that little bit to the side, and shove more bacon John’s way.
Never one to admit defeat, Rodney left Sheppard’s room, and swung by his lab, swiping the life sign’s detector, aka LSD. On a thought, he radioed the command deck and had the Jumper count verified. The ships were where they should be, and all powered down. So, unless Sheppard was really feeling a need for privacy, he wasn’t in the bay.
The LSD sluggishly powered on, and McKay resisted the impulse to whack it. He got that his gene was inferior – was it really necessary for every piece of ATA tech to treat him like he was the second best choice? The cheap date that a girl goes for after shoving prime rib out the door? He scowled at the city walls and muttered, “You’re no Audrey Hepburn, either.” The LSD normally wasn’t this peevish, but he’d found his cold made the tech even tetchier than normal. Maybe it was all that mucus – blocking the signal.
When the display came up, Rodney moved down the corridor. He had a general idea of Sheppard’s daily itinerary. Morning run, coffee and breakfast with McKay (and Ronon and Teyla when they managed to wake up early enough; let it also be known that early rising cliché’s did not apply to Athosians, and even less so, to Satedans), a meeting with Elizabeth followed, wherein Sheppard complained about the civilian demands on his personnel and Elizabeth complained about the military demands on the civilians. He’d sat in on one before. Rodney had felt the need to defend Zelenka’s insistence of a bigger weapon allowance for scientific personnel. Sheppard had retorted that Doctor Z wasn’t qualified on the P90, and when he’d lobbed a grenade on the training field they’d built on the mainland, he’d not only forgotten to pull the pin but had compounded the grievous mistake by walking to the explosive device to find out why it wasn’t working.
McKay had argued that Radek was only doing what he did best – fixing things and finding out how they work. Sheppard had raised an eyebrow, leaned back and nodded. “Exactly. We’ll let the people who don’t care how a P90 works handle the shooting. Over thinking in a combat situation gets you killed, Rodney.”
“And not thinking enough can do the same thing, Colonel,” Rodney had retorted. “Like flying into a god damn corona of a SUN. When I got into that back seat, getting a good tan was the last thing I considered essential.”
John had shrugged laconically, stood, and clapped a friendly hand on Rodney’s shoulders. “But you looked good, McKay – the rugged explorer, the ladies loved it.”
“They did?” he’d asked, momentarily thrown.
When he’d managed to process the implications, Sheppard was gone, and Elizabeth started fiddling pointedly with her laptop. He shook his head and had said, “See, this is why I never come to these.”
After John had the pow-wow with Elizabeth, he handled training when they weren’t off on another crazy mission. Then he’d bring Rodney lunch, and they’d eat while bitching about anything that was the reigning irritation of the day. Afternoon’s he sometimes spent with Rodney, other times he didn’t. McKay knew Sheppard had an office, and he figured some of those times when he wasn’t with him, John used it. Write up mission reports; handle the business of being military head.
Evenings were team time. They ate, did a movie or game, sometimes they took a Jumper to the mainland and visited while being briefed on the status of the Athosians. It chafed at him to lose lab time, but Sheppard insisted on team building. And, okay, sometimes, it was fun – like the first time they’d made Ronon watch Porky’s. He’d watched the Satedan’s face growl at the shower scene as he threw a rutting look at Teyla and say, “They had a lot of balls.”
She’d glowered and replied, “Not if I had caught them.”
Yeah – that’s when they’d crossed their legs and hit fast forward.
But it was morning now, and Sheppard had met with Elizabeth like he was supposed to and then had told her he was heading to Rodney’s lab to be guinea pig of the day again. And never showed.
The route from Elizabeth’s office to his yielded no trace of Sheppard. This was really beginning to stop being funny – not that it ever was, he should’ve used annoying – well, it was annoying, in the sense that he hated it when Sheppard made Rodney worry about him. He should only have to worry about one person – Rodney McKay. Being made to worry about anyone else just made him get all funky inside. Worries gave him an ulcer. Especially the human variety. And possibly constipation.
He was beginning to think it was time to head up and do a sensor sweep/radio check-in with all personnel. This was past the point of a sulking Sheppard making a point. Besides, John wasn’t the type to sulk – he was the revenge type. Served so cold there were two foot long icicles hanging off the eaves.
“Hey, Doctor McKay – tell Sheppard thanks,” called a voice behind him.
Rodney pulled up short, and turned. Draper, Dramar, Dramine – Christ, why couldn’t he remember names when he could remember the formula for computing relativistic mass? “Drabber, is it?” he asked, snapping a finger.
The guy frowned. “Dackerly,” he corrected.
“Dackerly, right,” Rodney said like he’d known all along. “Tell Sheppard thanks for…?”
“I couldn’t get my room to respond – lights, water, it was all acting fritzy. I ran into him on my way out and he said he’d check on it.”
Did someone flip the universe when he wasn’t looking? Because standing before him was a scientist saying he’d asked a military grunt to FIX a tech issue, and not just any military grunt, THE military grunt of Atlantis. “Dackerly,” said Rodney. “Remind me when I find Sheppard to apologize for the complete and utter moron that you are.”
The scientist glared daggers but he so wasn’t near as good as McKay. It took years of practice to get to Rodney’s level. “He said he’d do it.”
McKay’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, puzzles pieces sliding into harmony in his mind. “What did he want for it?”
Guilt flashed. Dackerly cleared his throat.
“Tell me and I won’t sic Radek on you – don’t and you can find out just how much he’s into experimenting.” Okay, if that ever got back to Zelenka, Rodney was going to get even more Czech swear words to add to his vocabulary.
But Dackerly looked suitably alarmed, even glanced down the hall. He hemmed and hawed until finally, shoulder’s slumping, he pulled out a box of Cuban cigars from an inner pocket and handed them over.
Rodney took the box, stroking the wood reverently. “Are these real?” he asked. No wonder Sheppard had allowed himself to be reduced to ATA tech tweaking.
“Still have Castro’s fingerprints on them,” Dackerly said with a smile.
“For getting your lights and water running?” McKay repeated.
The man looked pained. “I put in a maintenance request – do you realize the wait? It’s not considered a ‘need’ because the public facilities are working.”
Rodney didn’t know what to do next. He couldn’t remember how long it’d been since he hadn’t known what to say or do. Sheppard was running a black market, dealing on his gene. And the worst – he hadn’t asked McKay to be his partner! Priorities, and when he got his hands on John… “Where did he go to ‘fix’ your problem?” Assuming Sheppard even knew what he was doing. There were a couple of possibilities.
In the underbelly of Atlantis were three rooms. Maintenance lines ran into all three. Water, power, automatic functions like the toilet flushing when you walked away. Dackerly was right on the backlog. A city unused for ten thousand years – things broke when systems were reactivated. The whole ‘staying alive’ took priority, meaning if your toilet broke, get in line and good luck. And find the nearest working one by your quarters.
“I don’t know. I didn’t bother to ask since I was in a hurry. Look, I’ve got to go, if you don’t give those to Sheppard I’m still going to tell him I gave them to you to give to him,” the guy warned.
Rodney did his best impression of ‘oh, I’m so scared – not’ and turned away, tapping the ear piece. “Elizabeth, have tech guy sweep the three maintenance rooms below, tell me if there are any life signs.”
“Rodney -”
“Now, Elizabeth – I don’t think he’s avoiding us because we laughed at his boxers yesterday.”
“You laughed at his boxers,” her voice returned, curious but tempered around the edges by the real worry that apparently had spread to the others. See, that was the problem with worry, it was as insidious as a viral agent, worming its way from one host to another.
“There were hearts,” he replied, defensively. “And fat little cherubs with arrows.”
A pause over the radio before Elizabeth said in an almost fearful question. “When did you see his boxers?”
“When I pulled his pants down and made hot sweet love to him,” Rodney bit out caustically. “Jesus, we share primitively small sleeping tents off-world, two and two equals four no matter how sick a person’s mind may be. Again – missing Colonel?”
There was a soft chuckle before Elizabeth’s voice came back. “Got him! Maintenance room two – how did you know?”
“A little Dackerly told me,” he grumped. “Heading there now – and have Beckett meet me; there’s a reason why he hasn’t been responding.”
OoO
“Who saw him last?” Beckett asked, hurrying along beside Rodney, his bag bouncing off his leg.
“Elizabeth,” McKay snapped; not because he was mad at Beckett, or Elizabeth, or anything human – just the incredibly slow transporter that normally seemed to work at something just a little less than the speed of light, but now had to be whimpering at something less than mach two. “She said he seemed tired, but what else is new. I think the majority of the expedition has lapsed into a chronic condition of sleep deprivation.”
“And maybe he’s got the same virus you thought was killing you last week.”
“I couldn’t breathe, Carson. Breathe – as in, one of the most essential biological processes.”
“You have a mouth, Rodney. God knows, you use it enough to remember. It can deliver oxygen to your lungs just as much as the nasal passages.”
They’d exited the transporter that finally arrived at sub level four, and strode through one door, then two. Door three paused before opening, and they both stepped through with wariness when it did reluctantly slide apart. Normally, the challenge of a scathing reply wasn’t one Rodney would pass up, but while Carson just figured the door didn’t like him, like other ATA tech (Beckett would never live down the infamous Drone Incident) – and Rodney grudgingly had to admit, Atlantis seemed to sense Carson’s fear, like a feral animal facing a human – but a door? Even for Carson that was unusual.
It took all McKay had to keep his feet moving forward and not dismantle the controls there and then. The transporter, and now the doors…but Sheppard was waiting, and they were finally at the fourth door that led into the room where Sheppard was supposedly at. Beckett paused at the threshold of maintenance room two, waiting for McKay to deal with an apparently even more reluctant door.
He fiddled with the crystal, not a technical term, but close enough. It began to open, groaned, stopped, then shot forward, snapping shut so fast he would’ve lost a limb if he’d had an arm through. “What the hell is going on?”
“Talk nice to the city, Rodney, and maybe she won’t shut you out,” cracked Beckett, inordinately pleased to find someone else on the wrong side of Atlantis’ wrath. “Colonel Sheppard! If you’re in there, lad, open the door!”
Rodney glared, but he couldn’t keep his eyes both on Carson and the door, so he wound up glaring more at the crystals. The crystals had gone dead, as if no power was flowing through the back circuits, which was impossible. The lights were on, juice was flowing, but the door was dead – again, what the hell? “Zelenka, look at the power distribution in maintenance room 2.”
“Looking,” came the absent-minded reply over the radio.
“Rodney?” Carson prodded. “Normally, I would be the first to assure you that the colonel is fine, but I’d really rather see for myself, if you don’t mind.”
McKay tried to not act as insulted as he was. “And I’m working on it.”
“Try now, McKay,” Zelenka’s voice interjected. “I think I hit a ‘reset’ on that area.”
“Trying,” he muttered. The lights had flickered; now the crystals glowed as they should, and the door slid open half way. There was a mechanical cough, before it finished opening completely. If it hadn’t been for the soft moan that drifted out of the room, Rodney wouldn’t have risked anything walking through that death trap. Doors didn’t cough, last he checked, but the moaning was persistent and familiar. “Sheppard,” he swore, rushing in and thanking four different deities when the door didn’t alter his physical composition by severing parts.
Beckett was hot on his heels, and in seconds they were kneeling next to the supine form of one previously AWOL Colonel. McKay noticed two things; one, that Sheppard wasn’t wearing any socks, and two, that Sheppard was burning up. Really, he had to be close to spontaneous combustion because Rodney could feel the radiant heat like he was standing under a tanning lamp. “Help him, Carson!”
Beckett did a quick assessment, and muttered, “I’m trying, Rodney.” After checking John’s temperature, Carson unbuckled Sheppard’s belt, tugged it loose, and pulled John’s pants down to expose fleshy hip. Swabbing a spot clean with alcohol, he drove a hypodermic into the skin, before sitting back and ordering for a med team, STAT, to the room.
“What was that?”
Tugging a stethoscope free from the bag, Beckett grimaced. “Personal cocktail for incredibly fast fever reduction,” he replied. “Lad, you’re a mess. Rodney, help me roll him to his back.”
Rodney got a hand under Sheppard’s shirt, and tried not to yank them back when the sweat soaked cotton registered on the nerve endings in his fingers. “Gross,” he said, cringing. “I want this one recorded in the books. I don’t go groping just anyone’s sweat-soaked body.”
“I’ll still respect you in the morning,” whispered Sheppard.
Staring in surprise, Rodney realized John was blinking at him in confusion. His face was sickly white – and when he said sick, he meant as in one notch above death – except for two high patches of red at the crest of his cheeks, not far under his eyes. “You’re delirious,” McKay observed. “You should probably shut up now, or I won’t respect you in the morning.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Carson grouched. He hit the ear piece, “Where is the bloody med team?”
Just then, Sheppard started to cough, and the lights began to stutter, like a flame fighting to stay alive in a long harsh blast of a winter wind. McKay pushed back from Sheppard and regarded him. Those puzzle pieces that had begun to interlock glued shut in his mind, creating a picture he couldn’t believe.
Carson supported John’s head, easing him through the fit. As soon as the colonel’s breathing grew quiet again, the lights steadied. Rodney tapped the radio, a sinking feeling replacing the ulcer caused by the earlier fear. It was the only theory that made sense; yet, this couldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening – but here they lived in the world of one thousand impossible things before nightfall. “Elizabeth, we have a problem.”
OoO
The med team didn’t arrive. Five minutes bled into ten, and ten crawled into fifteen. When fifteen minutes slouched reluctantly into twenty, McKay gave up all attempts at patience. “Where the hell are they, Carson?” He’d told Elizabeth they had a problem, but it wasn’t one he even considered attempting to explain over radio. And not while Sheppard had latched on to his hand and was making his palm sweat like it hadn’t done since he was a kid holding on to his old Atari controller trying to valiantly destroy all the asteroids. Rodney didn’t even think his palms had sweated like this when he met Carter – the second time. Since the first had been spent with his not being sure if she was just that stupid or a hopeless case of ‘it’ll all work out in the end – it has to’. He’d figured out it was the latter, and when she’d been right, he’d opened the door to his own case of ‘it’ll work out in the end – it has to’, something that came in handy out here, in the nether regions where bad things happened with startlingly frequency.
Which is why John was lying here on the floor, sweaty palm stuck to Rodney’s, and a step away from death – or so it looked like to him. “You’re not going to die, are you? Because -” he laughed somewhat maniacally, “that would completely ruin my decade.”
Sheppard’s eyes still refused to focus; they did a lazy arc in McKay’s direction and he croaked, “Not yet – don’t worry, Rodney, when I die, I plan on taking you with me.”
McKay stared, somewhat disconcerted. “That’s good, really.” He met Carson’s concerned glanced and shook his head sharply, “Not the taking me with him part,” he growled. “The him not dying part.”
Elizabeth’s voice interrupted them. “Carson – the med team was trapped in a corridor four doors from your location. Zelenka’s working on it; is there any way you can try to work towards them?”
“I can make it,” slurred Sheppard. He started to push himself up, but two hands simultaneously pushed him back down. One from Carson, and one from McKay. He coughed, the lights dimmed, and John lay back down. “Maybe not.”
“Definitely not,” agreed Beckett. “Rodney, help me make him comfortable, this might take a while.”
“I’ll go.” Rodney was torn; his need to help get the med team to Sheppard warred with his need to stay next to John’s side. They needed to get him to the infirmary, and while Zelenka was good, McKay was better. Course, he tried to ignore the fact that he’d needed Zelenka’s help to get into the maintenance room in the first place. He looked at Sheppard, who was watching Carson fold up his jacket and then Beckett lifted John’s head before tucking it under carefully, easing John down with a brief kind smile. That’s when Sheppard started shaking – at first, small, almost unnoticeable tremors, that grew, till his bare arms were rocking like spastic elastic, caught in a wind tunnel.
“Give me your jacket,” Carson ordered McKay.
Rodney slipped it off, shivered a little himself, and tucked it over John. “Is it just me, or is it actually colder in here?”
Beckett opened his mouth to reply, but was cut-off before he could start when Rodney tapped the radio again. “Zelenka, check the ambient temperature in here.” His growing concern over what he was pretty sure was happening could mean life in Atlantis was going to grow very uncomfortable if he was right.
“It’s – this cannot be right -”
“Let me guess,” Rodney snapped, knowing his suspicions were right. “Somewhere between 15-20 degrees?”
“17,” came the ghostly reply. “And dropping.”
“The temperature’s dropping,” Carson said aloud. “But why?”
“Check Sheppard’s fever; is it dropping?” McKay responded with his own question.
Beckett stuck a thermometer in Sheppard’s ear, read the display, and at Rodney’s curious look added, “Thirty nine point eight – that’s down from forty degrees when we got here.”
McKay hated it when he was right – no, scratch that – he liked being right, he just hated it when being right meant they were screwed. He stared at Sheppard, thinking just how to say this without sounding like he was crazy. Then again, just about everything they did would sound crazy to anyone else… “The city – it’s responding to Sheppard’s illness as if there’s a symbiotic relationship. Somehow, he’s spread his germs where no man has before.”
What was the point of waiting to explain his theory when apparently they weren’t getting out of here any time soon, and as Sheppard’s temperature went down, so did Atlantis’, at least here where Sheppard was at. McKay thought back to when he’d been sick and he’d noticed problems getting the city to respond to him – maybe it was a virus affecting the ATA gene? Maybe the assumption of a common cold had been way wrong – or maybe the common cold had more implications when it came to Atlantis and they’d never known because how many people do you know travel to another galaxy and reside in a city created by a race of people that merged with your own race thousands of years ago when they knocked up the King’s daughter – or however the hell their genes had gotten into the human stock.
The fact is, it didn’t matter, because what did, was a simple stupid possibility that had never occurred to them. The city responded to a gene, responded to biological components, which meant the line from responding to and being affected by was pretty damn linear.
“Maybe the city’s responding to his fever and trying to keep him safe?” reasoned Carson.
“Maybe you should stick to your stethoscope and needles, and let me handle the technological theories.”
The huff came out with a Scottish brogue, quite impressive, and on any other day, when they weren’t trapped in the dregs of Atlantis, with a sick Sheppard and a sick Atlantis, he might have appreciated it. “Someone might want to remember that my needles poke in many dark, sensitive places.” Pointedly, Beckett fingered his hypodermic.
“Rodney, how are you doing down there?” Elizabeth asked.
How were they doing? “Sheppard’s dozing, Carson made a pass at me, and the med team was eaten by the city.” McKay waited for the explosion – one, two…
“I didn’t make a bloody pass at him,” Beckett rolled angrily. “I threatened his bloody bum with the largest needle I’ve got!” When Carson started his rant, his voice was loud and indignant, but when he finished up, it was weak and sheepish. “Oh, for pity’s sake -”
“Carson, don’t threaten McKay -”
Before Elizabeth could finish her sentence, Rodney smiled smugly, nodding his agreement. Course, then she continued…
“- Rodney, remember, red light green light – you’re on red. The med team wasn’t eaten by the city; Zelenka has them through two of the four doors separating you still.”
“Fine, fine – tell them today would be preferable to next century,” McKay sniped. He shivered again, and his eyes sought John’s. The light doze had given way to the conversation, and Sheppard was staring at him with lidded eyes. “Don’t worry,” Rodney assured John. “The century part was just an exaggeration – I’m sure they’ll get to you before you die from dehydration.” Rodney’s jacket was tucked around Sheppard, and pulled up to the man’s chin. If it weren’t for how sick he was, McKay would’ve been tempted to think he looked… “Carson, he isn’t going to die, right? I mean – that’s not a possibility. He’s sick, not deathly sick? Because if I’m right, and there is a symbiosis, his death could mean -”
A harsh cough issue from Sheppard, and he winced, moving a hand underneath the jacket to brace his chest. “Nice to know where your priorities lay, McKay.”
Rodney gave John his best crooked grin. “Taking care of you keeps the city safe. You’re my top priority; doesn’t that make you feel all cozy inside?”
Sheppard groaned, and looked somewhat more alertly at Beckett. “Please tell me you won’t leave me in his clutches.”
“As much as I wouldn’t wish Rodney’s nursing skills on my worst enemy, he’s volunteering, lad, and this virus has taken more of the med team than any other personnel. You’ve got some congestion, high fever, and let me guess, aches?”
When John nodded he sighed. “It’s a viral bug sweeping through, and if McKay’s theory is right, if this illness is creating a link between those with the gene and the city, then it’s imperative we try to stay on top of your symptoms. This isn’t the time to keep the stiff upper lip. You’ve the strongest gene, which means, while you’re ill, the city will be affected more.”
“Doc, I’m not afraid of much – bugs…big bugs, Wraith…okay, not so much them, unless they’ve got me on the wrong end of a stunner…but relying on McKay to nurse me back to health? That’s like giving a toddler a pet rat.” John rolled his head stubbornly to look at Rodney. “I’m breakable, McKay – you can’t squeeze, stifle, lock me up, or try to train me to push buttons on command…” he trailed off as he said the last one, and at the gleam of amusement suddenly reflected towards him. He groaned. “Fine, I push buttons on command, but the rest stands.”
Beckett gripped John’s shoulder through the jacket reassuringly. “Don’t worry, son, I’ll check in frequently. But first, we need to get you to the infirmary, and verify that there aren’t any nasty secondary infections at work here.”
Fortunately, the outer door finally coughed open and spat in the med team. The two med techs looked at the door with wariness, but pushed the gurney through without pause. Rodney scooted out of the way, and let Sheppard’s hand fall from his. When Sheppard tried to weakly push McKay’s jacket off, Rodney shook his head. “Keep it – you’ve probably infected even the cotton polyester blend.”
Either Atlantis had lapsed into an illness induced delirium of her own, or she responded to the goal in mind of getting Sheppard to the infirmary, because the trip there was uneventful. This time, the doors responded politely, the transporter approached light speed, and John’s fever dropped even farther, reaching a balmy thirty eight point nine.
Elizabeth was waiting at the infirmary. While Carson and the techs wheeled Sheppard off for a round of tests, Rodney stepped around a bed and dropped in the chair. It was only now lunch time, and light headedness was sneaking into his head. “Do you have something to eat?” he asked abruptly. “Because playing Nurse Nightingale was surprisingly tiring.”
Not looking like she entirely believed him, Elizabeth disappeared into Beckett’s office, and returned with a granola bar. At Rodney’s slightly confused but equally curious look, she explained, “Carson gets hungry, too. Now, the city being sick, explain this theory.”
That was pretty much the last thing he wanted to do. No, nursing Sheppard back to health was probably the last thing he wanted to do, but sacrifices were demanded of all the city members. “First, I want to make it clear that not only did I not create this problem, I also feel no guilt in missing the trouble when it initially started.”
She folded her arms and leaned on the bed. “Rodney -”
“Right,” he breathed. “The virus currently running through certain members of the expedition might be more than the cold or flu we assumed it to be; and when I say ‘we’ I mean ‘Carson’, for the record.”
Beckett’s voice shouted irately from behind the medical scanner four beds over, “I bloody heard that!”
“Good – that proves at least one of your senses still functions,” retorted McKay. “God knows your -”
“Rodney,” warned Elizabeth.
He rolled his eyes, and figured he could toss Carson a bone once or twice… “In his defense, we didn’t have any reason to suspect anything unusual. I believe in those individuals with the ATA gene, their symptoms are transmitting to the city. Their cells suffer, so does the city. Last week, when my cold was at its worse, and thank you Carson for not giving me enough medication…” Rodney raised his voice before returning back to normal level, “I realized certain things were sluggish to respond. Scanners, doors, lights, but it was intermittent and I thought it was a result of being foggy from how deathly ill I was.”
Carson waltzed over, hands stuck deep in his pockets, and grinned smugly. “Tell me, Rodney, when did it become normal for lights, doors, and scanners to work intermittently? Because I would’ve thought that would’ve raised your inner-trouble detector a lot more than blowing snot in Kleenex for a week.”
McKay’s fingers tightened on the edge of the chair. “We don’t have Kleenex,” he ground out. “At least, not the good stuff, with aloe.”
“No wonder you’ve been in such a pissy mood,” Carson exclaimed. “A sore nose equates to a sore head.”
The back and forth could’ve gone on for a while longer, Rodney found the battle of words invigorating and freeing for that ulcer that he was pretty sure had to be at least the size of a cat – maybe a dog. Smallish dog. But Elizabeth’s patience had worn so thin the frayed tattered edges were blowing in the wind created from the steam rising off her. “Rodney…” she took a calming breath, “I realize John missing, his condition, and the…alarming situation…with Atlantis has been undoubtedly trying for you, but, what can we do to rectify the problem before someone is hurt?”
“Nothing,” he replied, surprised that she didn’t get that all ready. Seriously. “It’s a virus, Elizabeth, Carson knows what you apparently don’t. There’s no treatment. I’ll have Radek run some tests, but if I’m right, after the virus runs its course in Sheppard, the city should return to its previously biased state…”
“What about others with the ATA gene?” she asked, not quite sure if she wanted to believe it would be that simple.
“Rodney’s right,” Carson spoke up. “It’s viral, there’s no cure, and the others have had minimal effect – most are systems refusing to work well for them, versus their illness affecting the entire city. Sheppard’s the closest Atlantis has in an Ancient, and she knows it. The actual symbiosis wasn’t seen until Sheppard became ill.”
“Music to my ears,” grinned McKay. “Rodney’s right.”
The frayed tattered edges of Elizabeth’s patience – the ones caused by the steam given off by her body – they broke. She pushed away from the bed, “Is John all right?” she stressed angrily.
“Aye,” Beckett answered. “He’d passed out from high fever and an inner ear infection exasperated his dizziness. Once he was down, the poor lad had no desire to get up again, and dozed on the floor. He never heard us because his radio was knocked off his head when he fell the first time. I’ve put an order in for amoxicillin for the ear infection, and will send him to his quarters with some medications to control his symptoms; the hope is to keep him comfortable as he fights this thing. Until then, I can’t predict how the city will react.”
“Because you aren’t the physicist, Carson.”
Elizabeth spun back to McKay. “And you can?”
There was a time to talk and a time to shut up. Rodney’s problem was never knowing which was which, and looking at Elizabeth, he gathered he’d screwed that one up again. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor, McKay looked over at Beckett. “Where’s Sheppard? I’ll take him now. Note the start of my indentured servitude because I will be repaid.”
Carson pointed to a curtained off bed. “I’ll bring the medicines by later with instructions; his doses are good for a few hours. And Rodney – no keeping him up, he needs rest.”
Before Elizabeth could try and pin him down further on the issue of the effects of the symbiosis, Rodney strode away, blustering through the curtain, and looking at John to see if he was awake enough to leave. Normally, he’d take any excuse to wax verbosely on Atlantis, the gene, anything that dealt with his area of expertise, and some things that didn’t – the problem was this problem. Computer viruses he knew…human viruses impacting computers…not even computers – Atlantis was far more than a mere computer…this was so far out of his area of expertise he’d keep falling before touching bottom, let alone, reach up enough to take a guess at how he thought the city would react. And admitting he was far, far out of his league…walking on red hot coals would be more enjoyable. Besides, admitting you don’t know something was a bad precedence to start. Building up his reputation as a miracle worker had taken time; one ‘I don’t know’ would go a long way towards undoing all that blood, sweat and tears of effort.
“My taxi’s arrived?” Sheppard coughed.
Taxi? McKay bristled. “Your stretch SUV limo with wet bar and hot tub has arrived,” he corrected. Narrowing his eyes at John, he realized that Sheppard was still draped with his jacket, and hadn’t made any move to get up. “You can move, right? Because when I made that crack about being an SUV limo, I’m really not.”
“Maybe a crane?” John asked hopefully. “Because I think my legs already left without me.”
McKay tossed the blanket back that draped over Sheppard’s legs. “Oh, look, there they are. Guess you can walk after all.”
John held his gaze for a beat, then sighed, the effect ruined when another coughing fit hit and the lights flickered, and went off. “Not my fault,” Sheppard spoke, a disembodied voice coming from in front of McKay. Before Rodney’s eyes could adjust to the dark, and he could actually see where Sheppard was, the lights came up, and blinded him.
Reaching for Sheppard, Rodney tugged him to his feet, blinking away the sparkly light coronas. “It is your fault,” he said crossly. “All of it. The virus, the city, Canada losing the gold medal to Sweden – it’s all your fault. So shut up, and move.”
Despite Rodney’s attempt at nagging John into ambulation, Sheppard’s legs really had gotten up and left. The walk to John’s quarters was spent with John leaning so much on Rodney, that McKay wasn’t sure where his body ended and John’s began.
When he helped Sheppard drop onto his bed, Rodney eyed John with skepticism. “Are you sure you’re not dying?” The city had behaved en route, making Rodney suspect Atlantis wished she could be the one to tuck her boyfriend into bed, and bathe his sweaty forehead. McKay had gotten downright grumpy at the thought, and almost wagged his tongue at a wall and said ‘see how it feels to not get what you want’…course, then John might be tempted to call Beckett and report McKay’s stranger than usual behavior.
Sheppard yanked clumsily at his blanket, still wrapped in Rodney’s jacket, and tried to pull it over himself. “Not so sure,” he groaned.
“Maybe if you’d take off my jacket,” Rodney suggested helpfully. As much as he wasn’t sure he wanted to wear Sheppard sweat, he was kind of cold. Atlantis must be adjusting the temperature again.
“I’m cold,” Sheppard mumbled in reply. He burrowed under the blanket further till all McKay could see were strands of deep chestnut brown hair poking out like he’d been electrified.
Rodney pushed a chair near the bed, pulled one of the extra pillows out from under John’s buried head, and settled in, propping his feet up on Sheppard’s bed. “You’re cold,” he replied dryly. “What I don’t get is why Atlantis lowers the temperature when you’re cold, and raises it when you’re hot – tell the city to reset its thermostat.”
The only sound that met his request was gentle snoring interrupted by the occasional cough and sniffled snort from underneath the blanket. McKay sighed, and pushed his hands underneath his armpits. He’d get up in a minute and find another blanket…
OoO
Rodney shoved at the cat on his face. “Get off,” he mumbled. But the fur kept tickling his nose, and the cat refused to budge. After shoving ineffectually again, McKay sat up, irate. He blinked at the dimmed lights, and tried to move the cat off his face, when he realized the cat was a blanket, and he was leaning so far over in the chair that he was almost horizontal. Blanket? Turning, he noticed a tray with three pill bottles, nasal spray, thermometer, and some other things, along with a note. The blanket started to slip further, and Rodney scrambled to catch it. The temperature in the room had leveled off at what felt like 15 degrees.
Standing, Rodney found his joints ached from sleeping in an awkward position, and aside from the other clues, he’d obviously napped for a couple of hours. He lifted the note and read Beckett’s hurried script.
Rodney, have John take the antibiotics three times a day, preferably with a meal, and no missing doses. The nasal spray he shouldn’t use more than three days. There is Tylenol and Motrin. Alternate those to control his fever. The Vicks rub will help with the congestion, and there’s a humidifier I left in the bathroom. Ronon volunteered to bring an extra cot, and someone will be bringing meals for you both. Radek wanted me to tell you that an exploration party got trapped on the north pier, but he managed to get power back to the transporter systems and they’re safely on the way back now. Temperatures continue to rise and fall, lights, power, but nothing serious has happened. He put the doors on manual until John’s recovered. He also said to tell you that he was sure you’d make a better nurse than physicist – his words, not mine. I think Ronon dared him, though. Good luck, Nurse McKay (I deputized you while you slept), and may the force be with you.
~Carson
“Ha ha,” Rodney muttered. It was only a few moments before something seeped into Rodney’s awareness. It was quiet. So quiet, it felt like he was in a room with a dead person. A sudden spike of fear shot down his spine, and McKay almost threw himself across the room, sticking a hand under the blanket and finding John’s back, holding his breath while he waited for the rise of Sheppard’s back with the man’s next breath. When it came, Rodney dropped on to the bed next to John. “Jesus, don’t do that,” he said.
But then the heat of the touch registered. He fumbled under the blankets till his hand again found John’s skin. Sweat soaked through John’s pores, his hair damp at the roots, and Rodney jumped to his feet, cursing his role as nurse maid. He wasn’t a doctor, and he must’ve been out of his mind when he’d volunteered to do this…that was it, momentary insanity, brought on by finding out John had infected Atlantis.
His hand fumbled on to the thermometer, and he started pushing back John’s blanket to expose the man to air. The air recyclers kicked on, and Rodney was just about to mutter a thank you, when he felt the hot air blow in the vents. Hot…son of a bitch! Just get his Bermuda shorts, martini and a sun tan lotion, and he’d be set for the tropical temperatures. Glaring darkly at the profile of Sheppard’s face, McKay gently pushed the probe into John’s ear. Forty point four. Great…he set the thermometer on John’s nightstand and prodded the inert man. “Wake up. You’ve got to take your medicine before the city bakes me like pumpkin seeds on Halloween.”
“Not Halloween,” John mumbled into his sheet. He turned away from Rodney.
“It’s going to be if you don’t get up,” McKay threatened. “And you need to give up my jacket before you melt in it.”
Sheppard rolled reluctantly. “Dad?”
“What?”
John managed to not focus on McKay. “I thought you were in Germany?”
Rodney had an ulcer. A really big, growing bigger, ulcer. Hallucinating John was not what he’d bargained for. Sweating, shivering, coughing, aching, whining – yes…hallucinating, no. Rodney was not going to pretend that he was Sheppard’s father, and that was it, period, no way – “And I thought I told you to brush your teeth, and go to bed two hours ago.” He cringed even as he said it.
“You’d take advantage of a hallucinating sick person?” Sheppard fixed one eye on Rodney. “That’s low, McKay.”
“Not as low as faking hallucinating,” remarked Rodney. He popped the lid on the Tylenol and shook out two, before repeating with the antibiotics bottle –only one of those, but three came out. Stupid pill bottles. He dropped two back, handed the handful of pills to John and ordered, “Swallow.” He handed him a glass of water after the pills were in his mouth.
John was boneless as McKay manhandled him out of the jacket. The room was hotter than the Sahara by now, and Rodney felt he could drink a jug of water. He’d gotten Sheppard settled, sans jacket, tucked in and propped slightly on his pillows to help him breathe, when John whispered, “No good night kiss?”
“My morals are higher than that.” It was tempting. Very tempting. But John’s eyelids were already falling shut, and the pallor only highlighted how sick Sheppard was, still…no one was looking, right? McKay leaned in, and touched his lips to John’s forehead; salt and heat met his lips, and he closed his own eyes for a moment. “Maybe not so high,” he mumbled. But John was already gently snoring congestedly away.
OoO
The next twenty four hours were easily some of the worse McKay had ever lived, which was saying a lot considering his job. Ronon did bring a cot, but in the early morning hours, Sheppard’s fever spiked, so high that McKay called Beckett in a panic. Forty point seven and Sheppard was hallucinating by then. The real problem was that it was no longer harmless Dad, but the Wraith, and the Iratus bug, and some other demons that John hadn’t shared with him before.
That’s when Carson joined him for the rest of the night, and they took turns bathing John with cool rags, while Atlantis did her best in cooking them. She fevered along with Sheppard, and no one could bathe her in cold cloths. When morning arrived, John’s fever had broken, and Beckett had stumbled off to get some rest, telling McKay to try and do the same, as much as he could.
Sheppard wanted a shower when he became coherent around noon. Ronon had brought them lunch. Sandwich, water, crackers and bowls of soup. John’s throat was now hurting in earnest and he thankfully sipped the chicken noodles down without swallowing at all. More one very long slurp. Every cough was harsh and accompanied by a wince, and an occasional hand rising to massage John’s throat.
While John showered, Rodney set up the humidifier. Sheppard was hardly on his feet, but managed to make it back to the bed, the towel wrapped around his waist sloppily. “I’m going to die,” he declared, his voice hoarse and thick.
“You’re not going to die.”
“You thought I was yesterday,” John pointed out reasonably.
McKay’s ulcer somewhat agreed. “That was yesterday. Today, you’re not going to. Here.” Rodney handed Sheppard his boxers; he’d purposefully found another pair with something silly on them. This one had Kiss Me, You Stud in red lips all over. He was secretly laughing.
“Quit laughing,” bitched Sheppard as he pulled the boxers on.
Okay, maybe not so secretly. “Do you want a shirt or boxers only today?” he redirected John.
“Boxers – oh, crap.” John had fallen back on his bed. That’s when his face brightened for the first time in a long time it seemed like. “You put fresh sheets on! You really do care,” he smirked.
“It wasn’t me,” Rodney said. “Ronon did it while you showered.” That was a lie. Completely and utterly. He might have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for the lights suddenly flickering and the toilet flushing.
A slow sensual smile curved across John’s face. “Liar.”
“Traitor,” McKay hissed at the ceiling. He really hoped this new level of interaction and symbiosis died along with John’s virus. Little white lies were the building blocks of civilization, and he did more than his fair share. Elaborations, twisting the truth, whatever, and it would completely suck if he had just enough of a gene to allow the city to tattle to mommy every time he lied. Or daddy, or whatever. “How are you feeling? Because if you’re human enough, I’ve got a bed in my room waiting for me.”
“I feel like crap,” John said. “But I think I’m recovered enough. At least, the lights aren’t dimming with every cough anymore.”
Skeptically, McKay eyed Sheppard. It had only been twenty-four hours, and John still looked pasty and fragile. Beckett would have his head if he left now. So, there – problem solved. He had to stay because he was afraid of Carson’s long, pointy needles. Not because he cared.
“You look beat, Rodney,” John said. “Lay down at my feet and read to me.” He tried to snicker but a coughing fit ruined the attempt.
The incredulous look that McKay was sure was plastered on his face earned a gleam from Sheppard. “Hold that thought,” McKay said, and quickly left John’s room, heading for Elizabeth’s. There was something he had to do…
OoO
Rodney cradled the book in his hand. John had dared him, and let it be known, Rodney McKay was never one to turn down a dare. He’d known the book to get the moment the words had been uttered by John. They had traveled across the universe, inhabited a city with technology so far advanced from their own as to be cavemen working in NASA. And yet they were here, fighting the good fight. And viruses that made both human and city sick weren’t going to be the oddest thing they saw – at least, McKay hoped not.
And Sheppard, God help him and that stupid super gene of his. Rodney would never get over the unfairness of having to take second best on the genetic side, but there was an old saying; if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
The door opened, and John raised his head just enough to fix bleary eyes on McKay. “You’re back,” he said, as if he’d never doubted it at all.
“For one more day you get me at your disposal instead of the other way around. One more day and Beckett thinks you’ll be right enough to monitor your own health again. Radek even powered up the doors half an hour ago; crisis averted.”
“You tucked me in with a kiss, and now you’re really going to read to me,” John murmured. “I think I love you – even if sometimes you scare me.”
Rodney plopped on to Sheppard’s bed, hard enough that both their bodies bounced. The request to be read to had been veiled in humor, but McKay had seen past it. He knew that John liked books. He knew the War and Peace wasn’t just a front. This guy had qualified for Mensa, after all, even if he was too…what was it anyway with no joining? Scowling at the leather bound volume in his hand, McKay vowed that one day he would get to the bottom of that. He opened the cover and flipped to the front page. “Remember this the next time I ask you to come and power up one of my ‘doohickeys’,” he said.
Sheppard laughed, the end turning into a cough, and the lights dimmed just that little bit to remind them both he was still mending. “I can power up doohickeys.” The grin was all sexual innuendo, and Rodney almost blushed.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. He tilted the book into the light, and began to read. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us…”
The End
AN: Temperatures used were given in Celsius since McKay, Radek and Beckett all would’ve used that unit of measurement. The ending excerpt was taken from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. *edited, fixed the problem with using F for body temps, thanks guys!
Author: kodiak bear
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: T (for innuendo)
Challenge: This Is Not Happening
Spoilers: None
Word count: 9,000 +
Summary: Shep gets sick, but in Atlantis, it's never as simple as a common cold.
AN: Thanks Linzi for the quick beta! I wish I could blame the final errors on someone else, but anything remaining belongs to me.
If the universe was governed by a practical joker, then he wanted it to be known, for posterity and public record, that Rodney McKay, Ph. D (among other things), was sick of being the maker’s personal slapstick pull-out. Need a laugh – thhheeerrrreeee’s McKay!
He’d spent the majority of his first two and a half decades fighting for recognition. Then he’d gotten it, finally, and earned a one-way (at the time) ticket to a new galaxy. Initially, his thoughts might generally have been ‘LOOK – new toys’, until they discovered the life sucking vampires, bug infestations, and a general danger level equivalent to being an opossum crossing the freeway to get home to his favorite tree…every night. So, Rodney thought that the fact that his life incredibly sucked was established well enough; he really didn’t see the need for the continual insult of a shit poor ATA gene to heap more midden on the pile. Carson was supposed to be smart – why hadn’t he managed to create a superior gene retrovirus? This – he lifted a spherical object – was not superior. It should’ve responded to his mental command…no, it should’ve JUMPED at his mental command. The fact that the two ends of opaque glass remained dark and dead proved that he was the cosmic equivalent to Gallagher’s watermelon.
And where was Sheppard? Rodney glanced at his screen. The clock, in Atlantis time, showed the Colonel was almost an hour late for their ‘clap on, clap off’ session. He scowled at the sphere, as if intimidation would work where determination had failed.
Irritation, his semi-constant companion, grew. Tapping the ear piece, McKay called curtly, “Sheppard?”
He waited. And waited. Five minutes later, Weir answered, “Rodney – I thought John was with you?”
“Elizabeth, I gave up my fascination with playing walkie talkies before puberty…which means, I’m not calling him to play ‘can you hear me now’. Unless he’s shifted into another dimension, which considering where we’re at isn’t such a far leap – he’s not here.”
The problem with the radios is that just about all the higher ups wore them, constantly. Weir, Sheppard, Beckett, Zelenka, McKay, Teyla; even Ronon had reluctantly caved to peer pressure. This meant, unless you planned ahead and agreed on a different frequency for clandestine conversation, everyone was listening in.
“A little less sarcasm, and a bit more explanation, Rodney,” scolded Weir.
He rolled his eyes and realized the only one that benefited from his theatrics was Zelenka, who had pulled his attention away from the other large object in the room undergoing the ‘let’s turn it on and pray it won’t infect, maim or explode’ experimentation.
“He’s not here, Elizabeth; he’s apparently not responding to the radio – would you like me to draw a diagram?”
Maybe if he hadn’t been in such a snit over the failure of his gene…again…maybe he would’ve dialed back the acidic bite of his normally caustic attitude – this was Elizabeth, after all. She handed out mission assignments. In her hands hung the decision between sending him to swamp world vs. bikini world. Rodney would infinitely prefer a trip to bikini world, where the biggest flying object was a seagull…well, it looked more like a flying penguin on the MALP’s transmission –
“I think maybe you should go looking for John.” Her voice came through the radio, and it was cold enough to freeze the fluid left in his inner ear from the cold he’d caught last week.
Casting a brief glare at Zelenka, who quickly turned back to the screen scrolling with diagnostic information on his lap, Rodney tapped the ear piece and muttered, “Of course, Timmy.” That was it exactly. She expected him to be Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Old Yeller and any other stupid hound dog. He’d just go sniff the halls, and find Sheppard…sniff the halls and find…a grin crooked his lips and McKay called, “Ronon -”
A few moments later, and the Runner’s breathless voice grunted, “Find him yourself, McKay – Teyla’s teaching me some new moves.”
McKay snorted. “I just bet she is.”
“If you would like to join us, Rodney -”
Scornfully, McKay said, “No – you and Conan get hot and sweaty and -” the crooked grin reasserted himself. “Hey – that’s…kind of hot.”
A new voice cracked, “Rodney, it’s nice you’re addressing your inner pervert – now find Sheppard. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago for his vitamin booster. The lad’s running low since he shed his Iratus self.”
The harsh reply stalled on McKay’s tongue, because A – Sheppard had agreed to be his ‘boy toy’ for two hours, turning recalcitrant technology on and off at Rodney’s whim; he was an hour late, which meant that technically, he still had dibs on the spiky haired gene bearer for another hour; and B – he had agreed to drop in on Beckett during their prearranged time, thereby cutting McKay’s time short, and then he’d stood both of them up!
“Fine,” he bitched to no one in particular, and all of them, at the same time. “But for the record, I am no one’s Labrador.”
An hour later and Rodney was beginning to wish he had a Labrador. This was ridiculous. He’d looked in Sheppard’s quarters, and not only was it locked (what – did the guy worry someone was going to steal his copy of War and Peace?), but by the time he’d finagled the crystals to release the door, Sheppard had missed an appointment with Heightmeyer.
Granted, Rodney could understand missing that particular appointment. Ever since he’d gone all buggy, and then returned to normal Sheppard form, they’d made him go to Kate and discuss the base inner urges of the Iratus life. John had confessed to him over bacon that the urges were pretty simple. Eat and hide. Occasionally kill. It was the occasionally kill that made Rodney slide just that little bit to the side, and shove more bacon John’s way.
Never one to admit defeat, Rodney left Sheppard’s room, and swung by his lab, swiping the life sign’s detector, aka LSD. On a thought, he radioed the command deck and had the Jumper count verified. The ships were where they should be, and all powered down. So, unless Sheppard was really feeling a need for privacy, he wasn’t in the bay.
The LSD sluggishly powered on, and McKay resisted the impulse to whack it. He got that his gene was inferior – was it really necessary for every piece of ATA tech to treat him like he was the second best choice? The cheap date that a girl goes for after shoving prime rib out the door? He scowled at the city walls and muttered, “You’re no Audrey Hepburn, either.” The LSD normally wasn’t this peevish, but he’d found his cold made the tech even tetchier than normal. Maybe it was all that mucus – blocking the signal.
When the display came up, Rodney moved down the corridor. He had a general idea of Sheppard’s daily itinerary. Morning run, coffee and breakfast with McKay (and Ronon and Teyla when they managed to wake up early enough; let it also be known that early rising cliché’s did not apply to Athosians, and even less so, to Satedans), a meeting with Elizabeth followed, wherein Sheppard complained about the civilian demands on his personnel and Elizabeth complained about the military demands on the civilians. He’d sat in on one before. Rodney had felt the need to defend Zelenka’s insistence of a bigger weapon allowance for scientific personnel. Sheppard had retorted that Doctor Z wasn’t qualified on the P90, and when he’d lobbed a grenade on the training field they’d built on the mainland, he’d not only forgotten to pull the pin but had compounded the grievous mistake by walking to the explosive device to find out why it wasn’t working.
McKay had argued that Radek was only doing what he did best – fixing things and finding out how they work. Sheppard had raised an eyebrow, leaned back and nodded. “Exactly. We’ll let the people who don’t care how a P90 works handle the shooting. Over thinking in a combat situation gets you killed, Rodney.”
“And not thinking enough can do the same thing, Colonel,” Rodney had retorted. “Like flying into a god damn corona of a SUN. When I got into that back seat, getting a good tan was the last thing I considered essential.”
John had shrugged laconically, stood, and clapped a friendly hand on Rodney’s shoulders. “But you looked good, McKay – the rugged explorer, the ladies loved it.”
“They did?” he’d asked, momentarily thrown.
When he’d managed to process the implications, Sheppard was gone, and Elizabeth started fiddling pointedly with her laptop. He shook his head and had said, “See, this is why I never come to these.”
After John had the pow-wow with Elizabeth, he handled training when they weren’t off on another crazy mission. Then he’d bring Rodney lunch, and they’d eat while bitching about anything that was the reigning irritation of the day. Afternoon’s he sometimes spent with Rodney, other times he didn’t. McKay knew Sheppard had an office, and he figured some of those times when he wasn’t with him, John used it. Write up mission reports; handle the business of being military head.
Evenings were team time. They ate, did a movie or game, sometimes they took a Jumper to the mainland and visited while being briefed on the status of the Athosians. It chafed at him to lose lab time, but Sheppard insisted on team building. And, okay, sometimes, it was fun – like the first time they’d made Ronon watch Porky’s. He’d watched the Satedan’s face growl at the shower scene as he threw a rutting look at Teyla and say, “They had a lot of balls.”
She’d glowered and replied, “Not if I had caught them.”
Yeah – that’s when they’d crossed their legs and hit fast forward.
But it was morning now, and Sheppard had met with Elizabeth like he was supposed to and then had told her he was heading to Rodney’s lab to be guinea pig of the day again. And never showed.
The route from Elizabeth’s office to his yielded no trace of Sheppard. This was really beginning to stop being funny – not that it ever was, he should’ve used annoying – well, it was annoying, in the sense that he hated it when Sheppard made Rodney worry about him. He should only have to worry about one person – Rodney McKay. Being made to worry about anyone else just made him get all funky inside. Worries gave him an ulcer. Especially the human variety. And possibly constipation.
He was beginning to think it was time to head up and do a sensor sweep/radio check-in with all personnel. This was past the point of a sulking Sheppard making a point. Besides, John wasn’t the type to sulk – he was the revenge type. Served so cold there were two foot long icicles hanging off the eaves.
“Hey, Doctor McKay – tell Sheppard thanks,” called a voice behind him.
Rodney pulled up short, and turned. Draper, Dramar, Dramine – Christ, why couldn’t he remember names when he could remember the formula for computing relativistic mass? “Drabber, is it?” he asked, snapping a finger.
The guy frowned. “Dackerly,” he corrected.
“Dackerly, right,” Rodney said like he’d known all along. “Tell Sheppard thanks for…?”
“I couldn’t get my room to respond – lights, water, it was all acting fritzy. I ran into him on my way out and he said he’d check on it.”
Did someone flip the universe when he wasn’t looking? Because standing before him was a scientist saying he’d asked a military grunt to FIX a tech issue, and not just any military grunt, THE military grunt of Atlantis. “Dackerly,” said Rodney. “Remind me when I find Sheppard to apologize for the complete and utter moron that you are.”
The scientist glared daggers but he so wasn’t near as good as McKay. It took years of practice to get to Rodney’s level. “He said he’d do it.”
McKay’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, puzzles pieces sliding into harmony in his mind. “What did he want for it?”
Guilt flashed. Dackerly cleared his throat.
“Tell me and I won’t sic Radek on you – don’t and you can find out just how much he’s into experimenting.” Okay, if that ever got back to Zelenka, Rodney was going to get even more Czech swear words to add to his vocabulary.
But Dackerly looked suitably alarmed, even glanced down the hall. He hemmed and hawed until finally, shoulder’s slumping, he pulled out a box of Cuban cigars from an inner pocket and handed them over.
Rodney took the box, stroking the wood reverently. “Are these real?” he asked. No wonder Sheppard had allowed himself to be reduced to ATA tech tweaking.
“Still have Castro’s fingerprints on them,” Dackerly said with a smile.
“For getting your lights and water running?” McKay repeated.
The man looked pained. “I put in a maintenance request – do you realize the wait? It’s not considered a ‘need’ because the public facilities are working.”
Rodney didn’t know what to do next. He couldn’t remember how long it’d been since he hadn’t known what to say or do. Sheppard was running a black market, dealing on his gene. And the worst – he hadn’t asked McKay to be his partner! Priorities, and when he got his hands on John… “Where did he go to ‘fix’ your problem?” Assuming Sheppard even knew what he was doing. There were a couple of possibilities.
In the underbelly of Atlantis were three rooms. Maintenance lines ran into all three. Water, power, automatic functions like the toilet flushing when you walked away. Dackerly was right on the backlog. A city unused for ten thousand years – things broke when systems were reactivated. The whole ‘staying alive’ took priority, meaning if your toilet broke, get in line and good luck. And find the nearest working one by your quarters.
“I don’t know. I didn’t bother to ask since I was in a hurry. Look, I’ve got to go, if you don’t give those to Sheppard I’m still going to tell him I gave them to you to give to him,” the guy warned.
Rodney did his best impression of ‘oh, I’m so scared – not’ and turned away, tapping the ear piece. “Elizabeth, have tech guy sweep the three maintenance rooms below, tell me if there are any life signs.”
“Rodney -”
“Now, Elizabeth – I don’t think he’s avoiding us because we laughed at his boxers yesterday.”
“You laughed at his boxers,” her voice returned, curious but tempered around the edges by the real worry that apparently had spread to the others. See, that was the problem with worry, it was as insidious as a viral agent, worming its way from one host to another.
“There were hearts,” he replied, defensively. “And fat little cherubs with arrows.”
A pause over the radio before Elizabeth said in an almost fearful question. “When did you see his boxers?”
“When I pulled his pants down and made hot sweet love to him,” Rodney bit out caustically. “Jesus, we share primitively small sleeping tents off-world, two and two equals four no matter how sick a person’s mind may be. Again – missing Colonel?”
There was a soft chuckle before Elizabeth’s voice came back. “Got him! Maintenance room two – how did you know?”
“A little Dackerly told me,” he grumped. “Heading there now – and have Beckett meet me; there’s a reason why he hasn’t been responding.”
“Who saw him last?” Beckett asked, hurrying along beside Rodney, his bag bouncing off his leg.
“Elizabeth,” McKay snapped; not because he was mad at Beckett, or Elizabeth, or anything human – just the incredibly slow transporter that normally seemed to work at something just a little less than the speed of light, but now had to be whimpering at something less than mach two. “She said he seemed tired, but what else is new. I think the majority of the expedition has lapsed into a chronic condition of sleep deprivation.”
“And maybe he’s got the same virus you thought was killing you last week.”
“I couldn’t breathe, Carson. Breathe – as in, one of the most essential biological processes.”
“You have a mouth, Rodney. God knows, you use it enough to remember. It can deliver oxygen to your lungs just as much as the nasal passages.”
They’d exited the transporter that finally arrived at sub level four, and strode through one door, then two. Door three paused before opening, and they both stepped through with wariness when it did reluctantly slide apart. Normally, the challenge of a scathing reply wasn’t one Rodney would pass up, but while Carson just figured the door didn’t like him, like other ATA tech (Beckett would never live down the infamous Drone Incident) – and Rodney grudgingly had to admit, Atlantis seemed to sense Carson’s fear, like a feral animal facing a human – but a door? Even for Carson that was unusual.
It took all McKay had to keep his feet moving forward and not dismantle the controls there and then. The transporter, and now the doors…but Sheppard was waiting, and they were finally at the fourth door that led into the room where Sheppard was supposedly at. Beckett paused at the threshold of maintenance room two, waiting for McKay to deal with an apparently even more reluctant door.
He fiddled with the crystal, not a technical term, but close enough. It began to open, groaned, stopped, then shot forward, snapping shut so fast he would’ve lost a limb if he’d had an arm through. “What the hell is going on?”
“Talk nice to the city, Rodney, and maybe she won’t shut you out,” cracked Beckett, inordinately pleased to find someone else on the wrong side of Atlantis’ wrath. “Colonel Sheppard! If you’re in there, lad, open the door!”
Rodney glared, but he couldn’t keep his eyes both on Carson and the door, so he wound up glaring more at the crystals. The crystals had gone dead, as if no power was flowing through the back circuits, which was impossible. The lights were on, juice was flowing, but the door was dead – again, what the hell? “Zelenka, look at the power distribution in maintenance room 2.”
“Looking,” came the absent-minded reply over the radio.
“Rodney?” Carson prodded. “Normally, I would be the first to assure you that the colonel is fine, but I’d really rather see for myself, if you don’t mind.”
McKay tried to not act as insulted as he was. “And I’m working on it.”
“Try now, McKay,” Zelenka’s voice interjected. “I think I hit a ‘reset’ on that area.”
“Trying,” he muttered. The lights had flickered; now the crystals glowed as they should, and the door slid open half way. There was a mechanical cough, before it finished opening completely. If it hadn’t been for the soft moan that drifted out of the room, Rodney wouldn’t have risked anything walking through that death trap. Doors didn’t cough, last he checked, but the moaning was persistent and familiar. “Sheppard,” he swore, rushing in and thanking four different deities when the door didn’t alter his physical composition by severing parts.
Beckett was hot on his heels, and in seconds they were kneeling next to the supine form of one previously AWOL Colonel. McKay noticed two things; one, that Sheppard wasn’t wearing any socks, and two, that Sheppard was burning up. Really, he had to be close to spontaneous combustion because Rodney could feel the radiant heat like he was standing under a tanning lamp. “Help him, Carson!”
Beckett did a quick assessment, and muttered, “I’m trying, Rodney.” After checking John’s temperature, Carson unbuckled Sheppard’s belt, tugged it loose, and pulled John’s pants down to expose fleshy hip. Swabbing a spot clean with alcohol, he drove a hypodermic into the skin, before sitting back and ordering for a med team, STAT, to the room.
“What was that?”
Tugging a stethoscope free from the bag, Beckett grimaced. “Personal cocktail for incredibly fast fever reduction,” he replied. “Lad, you’re a mess. Rodney, help me roll him to his back.”
Rodney got a hand under Sheppard’s shirt, and tried not to yank them back when the sweat soaked cotton registered on the nerve endings in his fingers. “Gross,” he said, cringing. “I want this one recorded in the books. I don’t go groping just anyone’s sweat-soaked body.”
“I’ll still respect you in the morning,” whispered Sheppard.
Staring in surprise, Rodney realized John was blinking at him in confusion. His face was sickly white – and when he said sick, he meant as in one notch above death – except for two high patches of red at the crest of his cheeks, not far under his eyes. “You’re delirious,” McKay observed. “You should probably shut up now, or I won’t respect you in the morning.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Carson grouched. He hit the ear piece, “Where is the bloody med team?”
Just then, Sheppard started to cough, and the lights began to stutter, like a flame fighting to stay alive in a long harsh blast of a winter wind. McKay pushed back from Sheppard and regarded him. Those puzzle pieces that had begun to interlock glued shut in his mind, creating a picture he couldn’t believe.
Carson supported John’s head, easing him through the fit. As soon as the colonel’s breathing grew quiet again, the lights steadied. Rodney tapped the radio, a sinking feeling replacing the ulcer caused by the earlier fear. It was the only theory that made sense; yet, this couldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening – but here they lived in the world of one thousand impossible things before nightfall. “Elizabeth, we have a problem.”
The med team didn’t arrive. Five minutes bled into ten, and ten crawled into fifteen. When fifteen minutes slouched reluctantly into twenty, McKay gave up all attempts at patience. “Where the hell are they, Carson?” He’d told Elizabeth they had a problem, but it wasn’t one he even considered attempting to explain over radio. And not while Sheppard had latched on to his hand and was making his palm sweat like it hadn’t done since he was a kid holding on to his old Atari controller trying to valiantly destroy all the asteroids. Rodney didn’t even think his palms had sweated like this when he met Carter – the second time. Since the first had been spent with his not being sure if she was just that stupid or a hopeless case of ‘it’ll all work out in the end – it has to’. He’d figured out it was the latter, and when she’d been right, he’d opened the door to his own case of ‘it’ll work out in the end – it has to’, something that came in handy out here, in the nether regions where bad things happened with startlingly frequency.
Which is why John was lying here on the floor, sweaty palm stuck to Rodney’s, and a step away from death – or so it looked like to him. “You’re not going to die, are you? Because -” he laughed somewhat maniacally, “that would completely ruin my decade.”
Sheppard’s eyes still refused to focus; they did a lazy arc in McKay’s direction and he croaked, “Not yet – don’t worry, Rodney, when I die, I plan on taking you with me.”
McKay stared, somewhat disconcerted. “That’s good, really.” He met Carson’s concerned glanced and shook his head sharply, “Not the taking me with him part,” he growled. “The him not dying part.”
Elizabeth’s voice interrupted them. “Carson – the med team was trapped in a corridor four doors from your location. Zelenka’s working on it; is there any way you can try to work towards them?”
“I can make it,” slurred Sheppard. He started to push himself up, but two hands simultaneously pushed him back down. One from Carson, and one from McKay. He coughed, the lights dimmed, and John lay back down. “Maybe not.”
“Definitely not,” agreed Beckett. “Rodney, help me make him comfortable, this might take a while.”
“I’ll go.” Rodney was torn; his need to help get the med team to Sheppard warred with his need to stay next to John’s side. They needed to get him to the infirmary, and while Zelenka was good, McKay was better. Course, he tried to ignore the fact that he’d needed Zelenka’s help to get into the maintenance room in the first place. He looked at Sheppard, who was watching Carson fold up his jacket and then Beckett lifted John’s head before tucking it under carefully, easing John down with a brief kind smile. That’s when Sheppard started shaking – at first, small, almost unnoticeable tremors, that grew, till his bare arms were rocking like spastic elastic, caught in a wind tunnel.
“Give me your jacket,” Carson ordered McKay.
Rodney slipped it off, shivered a little himself, and tucked it over John. “Is it just me, or is it actually colder in here?”
Beckett opened his mouth to reply, but was cut-off before he could start when Rodney tapped the radio again. “Zelenka, check the ambient temperature in here.” His growing concern over what he was pretty sure was happening could mean life in Atlantis was going to grow very uncomfortable if he was right.
“It’s – this cannot be right -”
“Let me guess,” Rodney snapped, knowing his suspicions were right. “Somewhere between 15-20 degrees?”
“17,” came the ghostly reply. “And dropping.”
“The temperature’s dropping,” Carson said aloud. “But why?”
“Check Sheppard’s fever; is it dropping?” McKay responded with his own question.
Beckett stuck a thermometer in Sheppard’s ear, read the display, and at Rodney’s curious look added, “Thirty nine point eight – that’s down from forty degrees when we got here.”
McKay hated it when he was right – no, scratch that – he liked being right, he just hated it when being right meant they were screwed. He stared at Sheppard, thinking just how to say this without sounding like he was crazy. Then again, just about everything they did would sound crazy to anyone else… “The city – it’s responding to Sheppard’s illness as if there’s a symbiotic relationship. Somehow, he’s spread his germs where no man has before.”
What was the point of waiting to explain his theory when apparently they weren’t getting out of here any time soon, and as Sheppard’s temperature went down, so did Atlantis’, at least here where Sheppard was at. McKay thought back to when he’d been sick and he’d noticed problems getting the city to respond to him – maybe it was a virus affecting the ATA gene? Maybe the assumption of a common cold had been way wrong – or maybe the common cold had more implications when it came to Atlantis and they’d never known because how many people do you know travel to another galaxy and reside in a city created by a race of people that merged with your own race thousands of years ago when they knocked up the King’s daughter – or however the hell their genes had gotten into the human stock.
The fact is, it didn’t matter, because what did, was a simple stupid possibility that had never occurred to them. The city responded to a gene, responded to biological components, which meant the line from responding to and being affected by was pretty damn linear.
“Maybe the city’s responding to his fever and trying to keep him safe?” reasoned Carson.
“Maybe you should stick to your stethoscope and needles, and let me handle the technological theories.”
The huff came out with a Scottish brogue, quite impressive, and on any other day, when they weren’t trapped in the dregs of Atlantis, with a sick Sheppard and a sick Atlantis, he might have appreciated it. “Someone might want to remember that my needles poke in many dark, sensitive places.” Pointedly, Beckett fingered his hypodermic.
“Rodney, how are you doing down there?” Elizabeth asked.
How were they doing? “Sheppard’s dozing, Carson made a pass at me, and the med team was eaten by the city.” McKay waited for the explosion – one, two…
“I didn’t make a bloody pass at him,” Beckett rolled angrily. “I threatened his bloody bum with the largest needle I’ve got!” When Carson started his rant, his voice was loud and indignant, but when he finished up, it was weak and sheepish. “Oh, for pity’s sake -”
“Carson, don’t threaten McKay -”
Before Elizabeth could finish her sentence, Rodney smiled smugly, nodding his agreement. Course, then she continued…
“- Rodney, remember, red light green light – you’re on red. The med team wasn’t eaten by the city; Zelenka has them through two of the four doors separating you still.”
“Fine, fine – tell them today would be preferable to next century,” McKay sniped. He shivered again, and his eyes sought John’s. The light doze had given way to the conversation, and Sheppard was staring at him with lidded eyes. “Don’t worry,” Rodney assured John. “The century part was just an exaggeration – I’m sure they’ll get to you before you die from dehydration.” Rodney’s jacket was tucked around Sheppard, and pulled up to the man’s chin. If it weren’t for how sick he was, McKay would’ve been tempted to think he looked… “Carson, he isn’t going to die, right? I mean – that’s not a possibility. He’s sick, not deathly sick? Because if I’m right, and there is a symbiosis, his death could mean -”
A harsh cough issue from Sheppard, and he winced, moving a hand underneath the jacket to brace his chest. “Nice to know where your priorities lay, McKay.”
Rodney gave John his best crooked grin. “Taking care of you keeps the city safe. You’re my top priority; doesn’t that make you feel all cozy inside?”
Sheppard groaned, and looked somewhat more alertly at Beckett. “Please tell me you won’t leave me in his clutches.”
“As much as I wouldn’t wish Rodney’s nursing skills on my worst enemy, he’s volunteering, lad, and this virus has taken more of the med team than any other personnel. You’ve got some congestion, high fever, and let me guess, aches?”
When John nodded he sighed. “It’s a viral bug sweeping through, and if McKay’s theory is right, if this illness is creating a link between those with the gene and the city, then it’s imperative we try to stay on top of your symptoms. This isn’t the time to keep the stiff upper lip. You’ve the strongest gene, which means, while you’re ill, the city will be affected more.”
“Doc, I’m not afraid of much – bugs…big bugs, Wraith…okay, not so much them, unless they’ve got me on the wrong end of a stunner…but relying on McKay to nurse me back to health? That’s like giving a toddler a pet rat.” John rolled his head stubbornly to look at Rodney. “I’m breakable, McKay – you can’t squeeze, stifle, lock me up, or try to train me to push buttons on command…” he trailed off as he said the last one, and at the gleam of amusement suddenly reflected towards him. He groaned. “Fine, I push buttons on command, but the rest stands.”
Beckett gripped John’s shoulder through the jacket reassuringly. “Don’t worry, son, I’ll check in frequently. But first, we need to get you to the infirmary, and verify that there aren’t any nasty secondary infections at work here.”
Fortunately, the outer door finally coughed open and spat in the med team. The two med techs looked at the door with wariness, but pushed the gurney through without pause. Rodney scooted out of the way, and let Sheppard’s hand fall from his. When Sheppard tried to weakly push McKay’s jacket off, Rodney shook his head. “Keep it – you’ve probably infected even the cotton polyester blend.”
Either Atlantis had lapsed into an illness induced delirium of her own, or she responded to the goal in mind of getting Sheppard to the infirmary, because the trip there was uneventful. This time, the doors responded politely, the transporter approached light speed, and John’s fever dropped even farther, reaching a balmy thirty eight point nine.
Elizabeth was waiting at the infirmary. While Carson and the techs wheeled Sheppard off for a round of tests, Rodney stepped around a bed and dropped in the chair. It was only now lunch time, and light headedness was sneaking into his head. “Do you have something to eat?” he asked abruptly. “Because playing Nurse Nightingale was surprisingly tiring.”
Not looking like she entirely believed him, Elizabeth disappeared into Beckett’s office, and returned with a granola bar. At Rodney’s slightly confused but equally curious look, she explained, “Carson gets hungry, too. Now, the city being sick, explain this theory.”
That was pretty much the last thing he wanted to do. No, nursing Sheppard back to health was probably the last thing he wanted to do, but sacrifices were demanded of all the city members. “First, I want to make it clear that not only did I not create this problem, I also feel no guilt in missing the trouble when it initially started.”
She folded her arms and leaned on the bed. “Rodney -”
“Right,” he breathed. “The virus currently running through certain members of the expedition might be more than the cold or flu we assumed it to be; and when I say ‘we’ I mean ‘Carson’, for the record.”
Beckett’s voice shouted irately from behind the medical scanner four beds over, “I bloody heard that!”
“Good – that proves at least one of your senses still functions,” retorted McKay. “God knows your -”
“Rodney,” warned Elizabeth.
He rolled his eyes, and figured he could toss Carson a bone once or twice… “In his defense, we didn’t have any reason to suspect anything unusual. I believe in those individuals with the ATA gene, their symptoms are transmitting to the city. Their cells suffer, so does the city. Last week, when my cold was at its worse, and thank you Carson for not giving me enough medication…” Rodney raised his voice before returning back to normal level, “I realized certain things were sluggish to respond. Scanners, doors, lights, but it was intermittent and I thought it was a result of being foggy from how deathly ill I was.”
Carson waltzed over, hands stuck deep in his pockets, and grinned smugly. “Tell me, Rodney, when did it become normal for lights, doors, and scanners to work intermittently? Because I would’ve thought that would’ve raised your inner-trouble detector a lot more than blowing snot in Kleenex for a week.”
McKay’s fingers tightened on the edge of the chair. “We don’t have Kleenex,” he ground out. “At least, not the good stuff, with aloe.”
“No wonder you’ve been in such a pissy mood,” Carson exclaimed. “A sore nose equates to a sore head.”
The back and forth could’ve gone on for a while longer, Rodney found the battle of words invigorating and freeing for that ulcer that he was pretty sure had to be at least the size of a cat – maybe a dog. Smallish dog. But Elizabeth’s patience had worn so thin the frayed tattered edges were blowing in the wind created from the steam rising off her. “Rodney…” she took a calming breath, “I realize John missing, his condition, and the…alarming situation…with Atlantis has been undoubtedly trying for you, but, what can we do to rectify the problem before someone is hurt?”
“Nothing,” he replied, surprised that she didn’t get that all ready. Seriously. “It’s a virus, Elizabeth, Carson knows what you apparently don’t. There’s no treatment. I’ll have Radek run some tests, but if I’m right, after the virus runs its course in Sheppard, the city should return to its previously biased state…”
“What about others with the ATA gene?” she asked, not quite sure if she wanted to believe it would be that simple.
“Rodney’s right,” Carson spoke up. “It’s viral, there’s no cure, and the others have had minimal effect – most are systems refusing to work well for them, versus their illness affecting the entire city. Sheppard’s the closest Atlantis has in an Ancient, and she knows it. The actual symbiosis wasn’t seen until Sheppard became ill.”
“Music to my ears,” grinned McKay. “Rodney’s right.”
The frayed tattered edges of Elizabeth’s patience – the ones caused by the steam given off by her body – they broke. She pushed away from the bed, “Is John all right?” she stressed angrily.
“Aye,” Beckett answered. “He’d passed out from high fever and an inner ear infection exasperated his dizziness. Once he was down, the poor lad had no desire to get up again, and dozed on the floor. He never heard us because his radio was knocked off his head when he fell the first time. I’ve put an order in for amoxicillin for the ear infection, and will send him to his quarters with some medications to control his symptoms; the hope is to keep him comfortable as he fights this thing. Until then, I can’t predict how the city will react.”
“Because you aren’t the physicist, Carson.”
Elizabeth spun back to McKay. “And you can?”
There was a time to talk and a time to shut up. Rodney’s problem was never knowing which was which, and looking at Elizabeth, he gathered he’d screwed that one up again. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor, McKay looked over at Beckett. “Where’s Sheppard? I’ll take him now. Note the start of my indentured servitude because I will be repaid.”
Carson pointed to a curtained off bed. “I’ll bring the medicines by later with instructions; his doses are good for a few hours. And Rodney – no keeping him up, he needs rest.”
Before Elizabeth could try and pin him down further on the issue of the effects of the symbiosis, Rodney strode away, blustering through the curtain, and looking at John to see if he was awake enough to leave. Normally, he’d take any excuse to wax verbosely on Atlantis, the gene, anything that dealt with his area of expertise, and some things that didn’t – the problem was this problem. Computer viruses he knew…human viruses impacting computers…not even computers – Atlantis was far more than a mere computer…this was so far out of his area of expertise he’d keep falling before touching bottom, let alone, reach up enough to take a guess at how he thought the city would react. And admitting he was far, far out of his league…walking on red hot coals would be more enjoyable. Besides, admitting you don’t know something was a bad precedence to start. Building up his reputation as a miracle worker had taken time; one ‘I don’t know’ would go a long way towards undoing all that blood, sweat and tears of effort.
“My taxi’s arrived?” Sheppard coughed.
Taxi? McKay bristled. “Your stretch SUV limo with wet bar and hot tub has arrived,” he corrected. Narrowing his eyes at John, he realized that Sheppard was still draped with his jacket, and hadn’t made any move to get up. “You can move, right? Because when I made that crack about being an SUV limo, I’m really not.”
“Maybe a crane?” John asked hopefully. “Because I think my legs already left without me.”
McKay tossed the blanket back that draped over Sheppard’s legs. “Oh, look, there they are. Guess you can walk after all.”
John held his gaze for a beat, then sighed, the effect ruined when another coughing fit hit and the lights flickered, and went off. “Not my fault,” Sheppard spoke, a disembodied voice coming from in front of McKay. Before Rodney’s eyes could adjust to the dark, and he could actually see where Sheppard was, the lights came up, and blinded him.
Reaching for Sheppard, Rodney tugged him to his feet, blinking away the sparkly light coronas. “It is your fault,” he said crossly. “All of it. The virus, the city, Canada losing the gold medal to Sweden – it’s all your fault. So shut up, and move.”
Despite Rodney’s attempt at nagging John into ambulation, Sheppard’s legs really had gotten up and left. The walk to John’s quarters was spent with John leaning so much on Rodney, that McKay wasn’t sure where his body ended and John’s began.
When he helped Sheppard drop onto his bed, Rodney eyed John with skepticism. “Are you sure you’re not dying?” The city had behaved en route, making Rodney suspect Atlantis wished she could be the one to tuck her boyfriend into bed, and bathe his sweaty forehead. McKay had gotten downright grumpy at the thought, and almost wagged his tongue at a wall and said ‘see how it feels to not get what you want’…course, then John might be tempted to call Beckett and report McKay’s stranger than usual behavior.
Sheppard yanked clumsily at his blanket, still wrapped in Rodney’s jacket, and tried to pull it over himself. “Not so sure,” he groaned.
“Maybe if you’d take off my jacket,” Rodney suggested helpfully. As much as he wasn’t sure he wanted to wear Sheppard sweat, he was kind of cold. Atlantis must be adjusting the temperature again.
“I’m cold,” Sheppard mumbled in reply. He burrowed under the blanket further till all McKay could see were strands of deep chestnut brown hair poking out like he’d been electrified.
Rodney pushed a chair near the bed, pulled one of the extra pillows out from under John’s buried head, and settled in, propping his feet up on Sheppard’s bed. “You’re cold,” he replied dryly. “What I don’t get is why Atlantis lowers the temperature when you’re cold, and raises it when you’re hot – tell the city to reset its thermostat.”
The only sound that met his request was gentle snoring interrupted by the occasional cough and sniffled snort from underneath the blanket. McKay sighed, and pushed his hands underneath his armpits. He’d get up in a minute and find another blanket…
Rodney shoved at the cat on his face. “Get off,” he mumbled. But the fur kept tickling his nose, and the cat refused to budge. After shoving ineffectually again, McKay sat up, irate. He blinked at the dimmed lights, and tried to move the cat off his face, when he realized the cat was a blanket, and he was leaning so far over in the chair that he was almost horizontal. Blanket? Turning, he noticed a tray with three pill bottles, nasal spray, thermometer, and some other things, along with a note. The blanket started to slip further, and Rodney scrambled to catch it. The temperature in the room had leveled off at what felt like 15 degrees.
Standing, Rodney found his joints ached from sleeping in an awkward position, and aside from the other clues, he’d obviously napped for a couple of hours. He lifted the note and read Beckett’s hurried script.
Rodney, have John take the antibiotics three times a day, preferably with a meal, and no missing doses. The nasal spray he shouldn’t use more than three days. There is Tylenol and Motrin. Alternate those to control his fever. The Vicks rub will help with the congestion, and there’s a humidifier I left in the bathroom. Ronon volunteered to bring an extra cot, and someone will be bringing meals for you both. Radek wanted me to tell you that an exploration party got trapped on the north pier, but he managed to get power back to the transporter systems and they’re safely on the way back now. Temperatures continue to rise and fall, lights, power, but nothing serious has happened. He put the doors on manual until John’s recovered. He also said to tell you that he was sure you’d make a better nurse than physicist – his words, not mine. I think Ronon dared him, though. Good luck, Nurse McKay (I deputized you while you slept), and may the force be with you.
~Carson
“Ha ha,” Rodney muttered. It was only a few moments before something seeped into Rodney’s awareness. It was quiet. So quiet, it felt like he was in a room with a dead person. A sudden spike of fear shot down his spine, and McKay almost threw himself across the room, sticking a hand under the blanket and finding John’s back, holding his breath while he waited for the rise of Sheppard’s back with the man’s next breath. When it came, Rodney dropped on to the bed next to John. “Jesus, don’t do that,” he said.
But then the heat of the touch registered. He fumbled under the blankets till his hand again found John’s skin. Sweat soaked through John’s pores, his hair damp at the roots, and Rodney jumped to his feet, cursing his role as nurse maid. He wasn’t a doctor, and he must’ve been out of his mind when he’d volunteered to do this…that was it, momentary insanity, brought on by finding out John had infected Atlantis.
His hand fumbled on to the thermometer, and he started pushing back John’s blanket to expose the man to air. The air recyclers kicked on, and Rodney was just about to mutter a thank you, when he felt the hot air blow in the vents. Hot…son of a bitch! Just get his Bermuda shorts, martini and a sun tan lotion, and he’d be set for the tropical temperatures. Glaring darkly at the profile of Sheppard’s face, McKay gently pushed the probe into John’s ear. Forty point four. Great…he set the thermometer on John’s nightstand and prodded the inert man. “Wake up. You’ve got to take your medicine before the city bakes me like pumpkin seeds on Halloween.”
“Not Halloween,” John mumbled into his sheet. He turned away from Rodney.
“It’s going to be if you don’t get up,” McKay threatened. “And you need to give up my jacket before you melt in it.”
Sheppard rolled reluctantly. “Dad?”
“What?”
John managed to not focus on McKay. “I thought you were in Germany?”
Rodney had an ulcer. A really big, growing bigger, ulcer. Hallucinating John was not what he’d bargained for. Sweating, shivering, coughing, aching, whining – yes…hallucinating, no. Rodney was not going to pretend that he was Sheppard’s father, and that was it, period, no way – “And I thought I told you to brush your teeth, and go to bed two hours ago.” He cringed even as he said it.
“You’d take advantage of a hallucinating sick person?” Sheppard fixed one eye on Rodney. “That’s low, McKay.”
“Not as low as faking hallucinating,” remarked Rodney. He popped the lid on the Tylenol and shook out two, before repeating with the antibiotics bottle –only one of those, but three came out. Stupid pill bottles. He dropped two back, handed the handful of pills to John and ordered, “Swallow.” He handed him a glass of water after the pills were in his mouth.
John was boneless as McKay manhandled him out of the jacket. The room was hotter than the Sahara by now, and Rodney felt he could drink a jug of water. He’d gotten Sheppard settled, sans jacket, tucked in and propped slightly on his pillows to help him breathe, when John whispered, “No good night kiss?”
“My morals are higher than that.” It was tempting. Very tempting. But John’s eyelids were already falling shut, and the pallor only highlighted how sick Sheppard was, still…no one was looking, right? McKay leaned in, and touched his lips to John’s forehead; salt and heat met his lips, and he closed his own eyes for a moment. “Maybe not so high,” he mumbled. But John was already gently snoring congestedly away.
The next twenty four hours were easily some of the worse McKay had ever lived, which was saying a lot considering his job. Ronon did bring a cot, but in the early morning hours, Sheppard’s fever spiked, so high that McKay called Beckett in a panic. Forty point seven and Sheppard was hallucinating by then. The real problem was that it was no longer harmless Dad, but the Wraith, and the Iratus bug, and some other demons that John hadn’t shared with him before.
That’s when Carson joined him for the rest of the night, and they took turns bathing John with cool rags, while Atlantis did her best in cooking them. She fevered along with Sheppard, and no one could bathe her in cold cloths. When morning arrived, John’s fever had broken, and Beckett had stumbled off to get some rest, telling McKay to try and do the same, as much as he could.
Sheppard wanted a shower when he became coherent around noon. Ronon had brought them lunch. Sandwich, water, crackers and bowls of soup. John’s throat was now hurting in earnest and he thankfully sipped the chicken noodles down without swallowing at all. More one very long slurp. Every cough was harsh and accompanied by a wince, and an occasional hand rising to massage John’s throat.
While John showered, Rodney set up the humidifier. Sheppard was hardly on his feet, but managed to make it back to the bed, the towel wrapped around his waist sloppily. “I’m going to die,” he declared, his voice hoarse and thick.
“You’re not going to die.”
“You thought I was yesterday,” John pointed out reasonably.
McKay’s ulcer somewhat agreed. “That was yesterday. Today, you’re not going to. Here.” Rodney handed Sheppard his boxers; he’d purposefully found another pair with something silly on them. This one had Kiss Me, You Stud in red lips all over. He was secretly laughing.
“Quit laughing,” bitched Sheppard as he pulled the boxers on.
Okay, maybe not so secretly. “Do you want a shirt or boxers only today?” he redirected John.
“Boxers – oh, crap.” John had fallen back on his bed. That’s when his face brightened for the first time in a long time it seemed like. “You put fresh sheets on! You really do care,” he smirked.
“It wasn’t me,” Rodney said. “Ronon did it while you showered.” That was a lie. Completely and utterly. He might have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for the lights suddenly flickering and the toilet flushing.
A slow sensual smile curved across John’s face. “Liar.”
“Traitor,” McKay hissed at the ceiling. He really hoped this new level of interaction and symbiosis died along with John’s virus. Little white lies were the building blocks of civilization, and he did more than his fair share. Elaborations, twisting the truth, whatever, and it would completely suck if he had just enough of a gene to allow the city to tattle to mommy every time he lied. Or daddy, or whatever. “How are you feeling? Because if you’re human enough, I’ve got a bed in my room waiting for me.”
“I feel like crap,” John said. “But I think I’m recovered enough. At least, the lights aren’t dimming with every cough anymore.”
Skeptically, McKay eyed Sheppard. It had only been twenty-four hours, and John still looked pasty and fragile. Beckett would have his head if he left now. So, there – problem solved. He had to stay because he was afraid of Carson’s long, pointy needles. Not because he cared.
“You look beat, Rodney,” John said. “Lay down at my feet and read to me.” He tried to snicker but a coughing fit ruined the attempt.
The incredulous look that McKay was sure was plastered on his face earned a gleam from Sheppard. “Hold that thought,” McKay said, and quickly left John’s room, heading for Elizabeth’s. There was something he had to do…
Rodney cradled the book in his hand. John had dared him, and let it be known, Rodney McKay was never one to turn down a dare. He’d known the book to get the moment the words had been uttered by John. They had traveled across the universe, inhabited a city with technology so far advanced from their own as to be cavemen working in NASA. And yet they were here, fighting the good fight. And viruses that made both human and city sick weren’t going to be the oddest thing they saw – at least, McKay hoped not.
And Sheppard, God help him and that stupid super gene of his. Rodney would never get over the unfairness of having to take second best on the genetic side, but there was an old saying; if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
The door opened, and John raised his head just enough to fix bleary eyes on McKay. “You’re back,” he said, as if he’d never doubted it at all.
“For one more day you get me at your disposal instead of the other way around. One more day and Beckett thinks you’ll be right enough to monitor your own health again. Radek even powered up the doors half an hour ago; crisis averted.”
“You tucked me in with a kiss, and now you’re really going to read to me,” John murmured. “I think I love you – even if sometimes you scare me.”
Rodney plopped on to Sheppard’s bed, hard enough that both their bodies bounced. The request to be read to had been veiled in humor, but McKay had seen past it. He knew that John liked books. He knew the War and Peace wasn’t just a front. This guy had qualified for Mensa, after all, even if he was too…what was it anyway with no joining? Scowling at the leather bound volume in his hand, McKay vowed that one day he would get to the bottom of that. He opened the cover and flipped to the front page. “Remember this the next time I ask you to come and power up one of my ‘doohickeys’,” he said.
Sheppard laughed, the end turning into a cough, and the lights dimmed just that little bit to remind them both he was still mending. “I can power up doohickeys.” The grin was all sexual innuendo, and Rodney almost blushed.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. He tilted the book into the light, and began to read. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us…”
The End
AN: Temperatures used were given in Celsius since McKay, Radek and Beckett all would’ve used that unit of measurement. The ending excerpt was taken from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. *edited, fixed the problem with using F for body temps, thanks guys!
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 02:50 pm (UTC)Okay, other than that nitpick, this was HILARIOUS. I love how you don't really gentle McKay-- he's still the same old Rodney. Oh man, the banter with Carson and the comment about how Ronon and Teyla getting sweaty would be hot...awesome.
*uses swedish gold medal icon just to piss rodney off*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 03:04 pm (UTC)hockey!
Date: 2006-04-09 06:17 pm (UTC)Re: hockey!
Date: 2006-04-09 07:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 02:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 03:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 03:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 03:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 03:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 11:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 04:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 11:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 06:14 pm (UTC)That line cracked me up! :)
Loved the humor.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 11:50 pm (UTC)symbiosis
Date: 2006-04-09 06:18 pm (UTC)Re: symbiosis
Date: 2006-04-09 11:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 06:39 pm (UTC)RachettRodney :D Very original idea and I liked the way it played out.(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 11:53 pm (UTC)*Loves*
Date: 2006-04-09 07:54 pm (UTC)A party line?! OMFG *DIES*
Oh, god, it's acronym is LSD, isn't it? I never noticed. Somehow, so appropriate.
For the record? I love your Teyla. I love your Ronon. I love your Teyla and Ronon together.
“When I pulled his pants down and made hot sweet love to him,” Rodney bit out caustically. *glomps Rodney*
Gosh, you have no idea how much I love for this fic right now. I've been sick since WEDNESDAY, my head wanting to roll right off my shoulders, my lungs crawling out of my chest cavity into my sister's specimen jar. I am just there with John, totally Zen, and I love you. Made my miserable week, yes you did, cheered me right up. Thank you so much.
Re: *Loves*
Date: 2006-04-09 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 08:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 11:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 09:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-09 11:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 12:46 am (UTC)But c'mon...the OTP here is obviously Sheppard / Atlantis... :oP
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 12:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 02:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 12:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 02:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 12:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 03:35 am (UTC)I loved the slow twinging of my awareness to the idea that Atlantis was actually responding to a cold. It was very beautifully done, and made me think of her as more of a real person--look, she even gets SICK! Or maybe it's just sympathy pains.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 03:51 am (UTC)I apologize!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 12:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 07:17 am (UTC)A pause over the radio before Elizabeth said in an almost fearful question. “When did you see his boxers?”
“When I pulled his pants down and made hot sweet love to him,” Rodney bit out caustically. “Jesus, we share primitively small sleeping tents off-world, two and two equals four no matter how sick a person’s mind may be. Again – missing Colonel?”
He fiddled with the crystal, not a technical term, but close enough.
Lol, I also loved everyone on the radios listening in; and Weir playing Mom; the man-eating doors...
Cute! :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 12:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 07:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 12:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-10 02:21 pm (UTC)And Rodney and Carson are just adorable.. “I couldn’t breathe, Carson. Breathe – as in, one of the most essential biological processes.”
“You have a mouth, Rodney. God knows, you use it enough to remember. It can deliver oxygen to your lungs just as much as the nasal passages.”
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-11 07:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-13 06:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-18 12:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-20 12:01 am (UTC)You set this up so that it was inherently humorous due to your basic premise, taking the idea of Sheppard's connection with the city and extending it nearly to the point of absurdity. Wisely, you kept the rest (for the most part) serious and dramatic. The dichotomy made for a great story.
Much as I like Sheppard, I'd be happy if you wrote all McKay, all the time. You write some of the best snark in the fandom. You so 'get' the character of Rodney. For example, there was this observation: "...he hated it when Sheppard made Rodney worry about him. He should only have to worry about one person – Rodney McKay. Being made to worry about anyone else just made him get all funky inside. Worries gave him an ulcer. Especially the human variety. And possibly constipation."
LOL!
I also appreciate the attention to small details, like a young Rodney playing with an Atari and not (shudder) a PlayStation.
Thanks for another great story.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-20 02:22 am (UTC)You know, the little details, it's so cool because these guys are my age, well okay, I'm just a little bit younger, but still, it was the same time frame growing up so those things are all from my childhood too so I get a little bit of a leg up there than maybe some of the younger set. :) Leg warmers, Flashdance, Thriller and War Games hehehe...