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sga_flashficTitle:Bring Me To Life
Author: Sian1359
For the SGA Flashfic F**king Freezing Challenge
Pairing: McShep
Rating: Teens plus for violent imagery and language(PG-13)
Category: H/C; Challenge
Spoilers: Takes place between The Return 1 & 2.
Word Count: 6,500
Notes: I have committed Flashfic. Odd, since most of my stories average 20,000 words or more, and I can’t write something in two months, much less two weeks. But lots of my friends and the other cool kids all seem to be hanging out here, so…
Disclaimers: Title, Summary and Opening Quote are all from the Evanescence lyric of the same title. I don’t own anything recognizable within and am just emulating the masters like Mallory and telling new folktales about someone else's characters.
Apologies for not having time to have this beta'ed.
Summary: Frozen inside without your touch, without your love
******
My spirit sleeping somewhere cold until you find it there and lead it back…home
The irony was killing him.
No, in reality it was his injuries that were killing him – or maybe the cold outside, which was rapidly freezing his insides. All in all, it would very likely be a race between the two and a coin toss for which would actually be listed as his cause of death. Either way though, dead was dead and it was absolutely fucking insane that he was going to die here. Trapped behind the wheel of a jeep, stuck halfway down the side of a mountain and no more than two hours from where he currently called home after having spent years in warzones all over the world, after having done a stint in Antarctica, and after having spent most of the last three years fighting against life-sucking aliens, homicidal robots and way too many psychotic humans in an entirely different galaxy. Not to mention all of the dangerous technology that could read his mind just because of a quirk in his genetics.
After all of those dangers, to finally be taken out by a SUV that had hit an icy patch…
John had a moment's concern for the other driver. Even if the pick-up had been going a little too fast for the road conditions, if John survived this he wasn't going to go after the other driver because of an unfortunately accident involving a blind curve and poor visibility. 'Course, his insurance company would probably have something different to say about just waving it off, but considering John would either be dead or finally deployed, any prosecution or collection efforts would be their problem.
Did insurance companies file claims against dead people?
Why had he thought dead? Okay, it was obviously the other driver was in a similar fix to John, but that didn’t have to mean dead. Except he could see himself at the funeral, saw the grieving widow and the parents but no kids, thank god.
No, he was just imagining that, was relieving Mitch, Dex or Holland’s funeral, or maybe Sumner’s, but the Colonel’s had been back on Atlantis, not at the same cemetery as Morton’s--
Forget about fucking funerals and concentrate on avoiding your own, John!
Okay, dusk had only just started falling when the accident had happened, but now it was fully dark. So at least a couple of hours had passed while he’d been unconscious. No one had come to check on them (him). He needed to find his cell phone, but the jeep’s CB radio wasn’t working, so he’d just have to get out and climb back up to the road.
John couldn’t see or hear any sign of the other vehicle being nearby, nor did he remember whether they’d both gone over the side.
The police had determined the driver had slammed into John’s sedan then spun and plowed into a tree along the roadside. He hadn’t needed to see the photos to know that when the front of the truck had caved in, it had pushed the engine block and steering through Morton’s body.
Memory and vision were both fuzzy and the symptoms of a concussion were too familiar for John to just pass them off and decide he’d get better and could wait for rescue. Hitting his head probably accounted for the cracked side window, while debris would account for the smashed windshield. Looking beyond the glass, he could make out that the snow had stopped sometime after he'd lost consciousness, but recently enough that an inch or so lay atop the car except for where the engine had melted it off the hood. A rising moon provided a faint reflection off of the snow, but that was really all he was seeing other than a whole lot of blurry shadows that might be the other car, some trees, the mountainside or a fucking circus of bears for all he could make out between eyes that felt swollen and gummed with blood or sweat or melted snow.
And images that seemed more like memories, but of stuff that couldn't have yet happened; maybe the concussion was really a skull fracture with some piece of bone pressing against his brain and lighting up memory or imagination or
The headache and the dizzying head rush weren’t just from the concussion John decided as he tried to straighten up. The jeep -- no, he'd been driving a sedan, but -- the vehicle was wedged against something at a thirty degree or so angle sideways and backwards as it had also spun a one-eighty at some point to end up facing back toward the top of the mountain. His seat had also broken free and his end had shifted against the backseat. While this had meant he hadn't ended up with the steering wheel caving in his chest (no air bags, thank you low-bid government contractors, wait, no, air bags didn’t exist yet, right?...but…what?), sometime during the car’s mogul run down the mountainside he’d still banged into it a couple of times going by the way his breathing hitched when he needed to draw in a deep one. Or maybe it was just the significant bruising striping his chest from the seatbelt that hurt so damn much when he tried to breathe.
Right, seatbelt, John, that’s why you can’t raise yourself. Wake the fuck up!
It took more coordination than it should have and John had to stop once to take a deep breath despite the pressure against his lungs to keep from vomiting. But he finally managed to unclip himself. Only when he started sliding sideways did he figure out why his subconscious might have decided it would be better to have not done that. That conclusion was then doubly reinforced when he tried to control his slide by grabbing hold of the steering wheel with his left hand. And missed.
Motherfucker!
Fiery pain licked up his left side, leaving no doubt that his head hadn’t been the only thing he’d banged into the door during the crash. His shoulder was either broken or dislocated and, as he now crumpled against the right door, something in his left knee twisted. The nausea he’d been fighting broke through and he coughed up a bit of bile, surprised but grateful when his lunch didn’t make a reappearance. The smell of blood, oil and leaking gas was enough to make his eyes water without having added regurgitated tacos. Only --
The commissary was on a health kick thanks to Doctor Lam, and most of the food offerings wouldn’t have been appealing even if John wasn’t having trouble reacclimating himself to Earth dishes. He didn’t care for power bars or MREs like Rodney (no one enjoyed them like Rodney), but at the moment they sounded better than salad and tofu. Maybe he'd do better to just wait and grab dinner off The Mountain.
Deciding black spots before his eyes were worse than hallucinations, John spent a few more moments curled over his waist still dry heaving instead of trying to straighten again. The tears he was blinking back were definitely from the ribs that were cracked instead of just bruised. Of course, the heaving in general, the agony spiking behind his knee, the throbbing from his head injury or just from being unable to duck from the fucking wind and snow that found its way through the cracked windows and torn canvas roof might also be contributing.
Fuck, the last time he’d been this banged up had been during college, had been the result of yet another accidental trip down a mountainside after a different day of snowboarding in which he’d received the same type of injuries --
No, not the same type, but exactly the same and that, like all of the other weird disconnects and blending between memory and reality he was experiencing, just wasn’t possible.
John blinked again and tried to engage his sluggish brain into figuring it out. Impossibilities generally meant intervention -- by either aliens or tech -- and it was obviously pretty important that John work it through. You could die in false realities, from neglecting his body's needs like food or water, or by his brain being convinced of catastrophic injury, or --
He needed to take care of his body and his injuries, needed to get out of the car/jeep/jumper? He needed to find a way back up the mountain or at least try to find a way to get warm before he passed out again and maybe this time didn’t wake back up.
Twisting at the waist, John tried to pull himself back up using his right hand on the steering wheel this time. That, however, put the strain back on his bruised chest and aching ribs as well as debilitating pressure on his knee. He could fight gravity or the limitations of his own body, but not both at the same time. So he was left with trying to smash through the windshield, since if he couldn’t even pull himself up he wasn’t going to be able to force a door that he could see from here had been bent inward and twisted on its frame.
Except his efforts there would only crack the safety glass further, as he didn’t have anything other than a booted foot to ram against it
He tried it only once, the knife point digging into his knee when he braced his damaged leg against the drive shaft hump to gain enough leverage to bash his other heel against the windshield. Switching legs wouldn’t work even if he was that flexible and remained conscious. While he might be able to drag himself up onto the dash to try an elbow, he’d have even less force or momentum to work it, especially if he took off his jacket to bundle it around his arm so he didn’t shred his skin on the edges.
Christ, something was definitely wrong. These memories/hallucinations were weird and, okay maybe it was only déjà vu, except this felt a lot like the Mist Planet all over again, and reliving Mitch and Dex’s funerals were bad enough without having to relive their fake resurrection again too. No, Mitch and Dex weren't fucking dead! The three of them had just been accepted into fighter jet training and --
"Sorry, Lieutenant Sheppard, but you’re looking at six months minimum of rehabilitation, then another few weeks to get back up to fitness standards. The slots at Luke and Altus already have waiting lists. Your CO said they can hold a slot at Kirtland with the Hueys and Pave Hawks for you, but if you pass on that, you’d have to attempt to requalify for a F-16 slot next year and --
And he’d gone the rotor-wing route instead of delaying his training for another year, had ended up deployed as a Combat Search and Rescue pilot in Bosnia instead of being one of the F-16 pilots he often had to go in for, and had ended meeting up with Mitch and Dex again in Afghanistan before they'd been taken out by a RPG. And he wasn’t a newly minted Air Force Second Lieutenant facing daunting rehabilitation, but was actually a Lieutenant Colonel, who'd recovered from those injuries and many others over the years. Nor had he had any opportunity to go snowboarding in at least half of those years.
Except he remembered the feel and condition of the slopes these last couple of days, and this morning's runs had been truly spectacular before the storm moved in --
"What the fuck are you idiots doing?"
Not exactly a good bedside manner for a rescue worker, but John supposed it might be a legitimate question considering the trouble he seemed to be in and how unsuccessful he was in trying to extract himself from his vehicle. Sounded like the other driver was alive too (no) since it had been idiots plural. Even better, John recognized that voice.
Yet how could he? He didn’t even live in this state, was only visiting and what would be the likelihood of running into someone he’d trained (served) with when he was hundreds of miles from any base?
So that skull fracture seemed to be a yes as he was having audio hallucinations if not also visual ones. Didn’t folks succumbing to hyperthermia usually just want to go to sleep?
Only John was not sleepy, was instead absolutely frantic to move, to get out and to get away. To let the abrasive yet totally comforting voice take over, because John knew he could trust it. Especially when he was so fucking cold and he hurt.
"No, I don’t care if he volunteered. He’s Air Force and he’s got a goddamn General looking over his shoulder. Of course he agreed!"
But John was the only one in the jeep (sedan). He was sure of that. He didn’t ski or 'board with Generals, nor would he have been driving a General somewhere else. They picked drivers they liked and trusted.
Punishment then? No, punishment for him would be confinement from a driver’s seat as well as from the cockpit. He and Generals just didn’t seem to get along, although there had been that one in Antarctica –
Was that where he really was? Antarctica and downed in his bird instead of trapped in a ground vehicle? Only --
"Stop! Don’t you fucking touch anything! You can’t just start grabbing things."
How could yelling be comforting? Why was yelling comforting?
"They have to be shut off and, since you geniuses needed him to turn it on in the first place, you’re obviously not going to be able to do anything but make it worse. Now tell me, what exactly did you tell him to do?"
What? Who? Oh…
Let’s start with simple concept, Colonel. Think about something cold.
Cold. Yes, by God, he was so fucking cold. He’d thought about cold, then remembered cold and --
Fuck! Off offOffOFF!
When John next opened his eyes he found himself still curled around his aching ribs, but he seemed to have stopped dry heaving. And his ribs hurt only because he’d been sick; his breathing was fine and there was no bruising… All of the aches -- his knee, his shoulder, the concussion -- none of them were real except the headache, were only phantom pains of former injuries. He wasn’t trapped in a jeep (or a car) that was stuck on a mountainside and buried under a couple inches of snow. He wasn’t in a copter either, no vehicle at all and not even in the chair he’d started this session in. Instead he was kneeling against the floor with the rest of his body folded over Rodney McKay’s lap. The scientists he’d started the afternoon with were all hovering nearby and helpless (worthless).
This was real. John wasn't sure how he knew, but he did know.
One of Rodney's big, warm hands was braced against the back of John’s neck while the other was clutching one of John’s own, trapped between their bodies. John still felt so damn cold, but everywhere he was touching Rodney, heat flared between them and he could almost forget (remember) everything.
"R’ney?"
"Colonel, good. Don't worry about them or about moving just yet."
The tone and address might be formal for the benefit of their audience, but the hand on John’s neck squeezed gently and where Rodney’s thumb was hidden between them, Rodney was rubbing in small soothing circles.
John nodded very carefully and really wished his headache had been a phantom pain too.
"Okay, now release your grip and just let go of the device."
John had no idea what Rodney was talking about, but even if he was mostly unconscious or half out of his mind (yes), three years in Atlantis had conditioned him to listen to Rodney and to never question him when Rodney's voice held that particular mixed tone of anger laced with true panic.
‘Course, obliging him was an easier in thought than in actual action. Until he felt Rodney’s fingers working their way between his to help. All at once John could feel the device that was nearly imbedded into his palm as deeply as it had apparently imbedded itself into his mind. He managed to think Off! once more for good measure, then let it drop. He tried to twist away as it fell to the floor between Rodney’s legs. As Rodney wasn’t any keener on being near it, together they managed an undignified scooching on knees and butt until there was a foot or more of distance between them and it.
"Should we call for a medical team?" someone asked from above them.
That sounded right, except John knew he didn’t want it to happen. Doctor Carolyn Lamb might be a terrific doctor, but she also ran her infirmary with a heavy hand and was as impersonal as any of the ones in Ramstein or at Walter Reed, and John was so tired of just being a set of dog tags. Lam was also Landry’s daughter, and John certainly didn’t need his new CO thinking him a lightweight or a goldbrick as well as the malcontent who hadn’t showed the proper appreciation for Landry finding him a place here at the SGC.
"Most people would have already done so when he first began shaking, or maybe after the gagging and convulsions."
Rodney had gone into full screed mode, with sarcasm outstripping even his anger, and John sometimes hated how much of a thrill that gave him – even when it was directed at him -- but especially when the haranguing was done on his behalf.
"Well, yes, but –"
"Don’t wet yourself, Paulson. And don’t fucking bother about it now. I’ve got it under control."
Of course Rodney had it under control. Rodney always did, at least when in the labs. Not that this was Rodney's lab or that Rodney was even supposed to be here, so Paulson had to be shitting kittens about now to have been usurped. John couldn’t work up much sympathy for Paulson, though.
The people working directly at Stargate Command were supposed to be better than their Atlantean counterparts (cast-offs), yet after four weeks, you certainly couldn’t prove it by John's experiences. Paulson and his group had gone directly to General Landry to make sure they got some of John’s time to test their Ancient tech (instead of just fucking asking him), plus they’d lied about knowing what this last thing was. Sure, maybe they’d just been wrong, but at least under the safety protocols Rodney’s team had put into place in Atlantis, there would have been someone else with the ATA gene nearby who could monitor and override the test if something went wrong.
His new gate team wasn’t any better; all three were so damn green despite their having been on dozens of missions before John had inherited them. Okay, there hadn’t been any crises to gel (or break) the team so far, but it wasn’t really like he was the FNG himself, to deserve a group of raw nuggets and a series of milkruns.
The lack of Ori confrontations or pissed-off natives shooting and chasing them to the gate should have been a good thing. John certainly never expected to miss the damn Wraith. But then he also never expected to have to miss being relevant again. Being replaced or reassigned as Atlantis' Military Commander or, hell, being just becoming dead was one thing and, when all was said and done, more or less accepted as being inevitable. But having the entire Atlantis expedition be sent packing and becoming redundant; to find he was now just one Lieutenant Colonel too many kicking around the SGC, to find he was a babysitter and once more just a goddamn light switch --
Okay, maybe he was no longer hallucinating, but he was obviously still out of it, just rambling in his mind and unable to focus even on Rodney's touch.
Rodney’s thumb had been rubbing up and down the back of John’s neck to the rhythm of John’s recovering heartbeat, but John only really noticed it when it suddenly went away. He twitched where he'd intended to rise up, wanting to protest but needing to move away and managing none of it. Fortunately Rodney figured knew him well enough to help him make it up as far as resting his head against Rodney’s chest and shoulder instead of his lap.
Leaning here really wasn’t any more appropriate, at least not with them being watched by people who were still part of the big Air Force like Landry, so John tried to push him away…to apologize or to criticize or—
"Shhh," was whispered against the top of his head and John was too wasted to keep protesting anyway. The injuries his body was still reacting to might not be real, but his migraine and nausea were, and his mind still thought he was cold, that he was fucking freezing actually –
"Triangulate on the Colonel’s and my signal, Hermiod, and beam us directly to the infirmary."
Rodney’s voice was suddenly a lot louder than his murmurs of comfort, but these new words were just as comforting, as being transported was much more efficient than trying to get up and walk. John had known Rodney would take care of him when Paulson hadn’t, so even the disorientation of being teleported was okay. As was the greater confusion when John discovered he hadn’t be relocated to the SGC’s infirmary but to the Daedelus’ instead. This at least explained how he’d ended up in Rodney’s lap in the first place, when the last John had known was that Rodney was still out in Area 51 and wasn’t due to make the trip from Nevada to Colorado for another couple of weeks.
The Daedelus wasn’t any safer to stay in Rodney’s arms than at the SGC, so John finally let the medics help him away despite really, really just wanting to hold on tighter and burrow into Rodney’s strength and warmth. He wasn’t really injured though, or even sick beyond what he guessed had been a bad reaction to some Ancient tech. Yet being fussed over by a doctor here on the Daedelus did let Rodney hover nearby; Caldwell’s people knew enough of the important things about Atlantis and her people not to object or disregard them.
"Okay, Colonel, let’s get you situated and feeling better. Doctor McKay, can you assist Rawlings here in getting him up on the bed?"
John was lifted to his feet and, while he swayed, he made sure to fall Rodney’s direction for one last bit of contact before being seated and then laid back. John managed to contain the moan, but had to close his eyes and could only hear something metal being grabbed and thrust under his mouth in case he hurled again. Fortunately he managed to stave off the nausea by concentrating on the fingers smoothing back his hair, even if they were too small to be Rodney’s.
"Doctor McKay, why don’t you tell me what’s happened?"
John wasn't sure if the speaker wasn't a nurse instead of a doctor, because someone else was drawing blood from John’s arm while the fingers continued to card through his hair.
"Other than the obvious, that the SGC employs fools and idiots?"
"How about we just stick with what happened to Colonel Sheppard," she neatly cut Rodney off, so maybe she was the doctor.
John didn't think Rodney would have backed down from just a nurse.
"You can continue with your imprecations once we’ve gotten the Colonel back on his feet."
"I’m pretty sure it’s just a tech hangover," John tried to speak for himself, although he was pretty anxious to hear Rodney too.
Tech hangover was the best that Carson and his people had been able to come up with to describe the occasional bad ATA gene interactions. This was probably the worst John had experienced – even over sitting in the control chair for hours running diagnostics with Rodney and Radek Zelenka. Neither Carson nor Rodney had been able to decide whether the morning after feeling was the result of not having enough genes in common with the Ancients to be able to work certain pieces of tech properly, or if the technology itself was at fault either by being prototypes or just byproducts of bad engineering.
The reappearance of Helia and her crew of pure blood Ancients should have given them the answer to that question and thousands more, except revived Ancients apparently weren’t anymore forthcoming or helpful than the ascended or descended ones. This group had immediately seen the Atlantis expedition as interlopers and had sent John’s people packing as quickly as they could. While John wasn't always keen to have the ATA gene, this had been the first time he’d been angry (ashamed) to share ancestors with such arrogant, pissy, ungrateful bastards –
"This seems a little more than just a hangover," the doctor commented softly as something was injected into John’s veins instead of just more stuff coming out.
"Yes, well, misused tech is definitely part of it," Rodney started with his explanations. "Doctor Simpson called me after she’d passed by one of the labs and noticed that Colonel Sheppard was working alone with Paulson and his interns. Devon Paulson is currently the lead on the Ancient tech classifications at the SGC and doesn’t have two braincells to rub together and figure out fire, much less figure out how to handle Ancient tech," Rodney just couldn’t help himself.
John found it rather funny how someone so fucking smart could be so easily distracted.
"Did you just giggle?" Rodney asked.
It took John a few seconds to realize the question had been directed his way and so he giggled again.
"What have you –"
"It’s just a simple muscle relaxant, Doctor McKay. Until we can make sure there are no foreign elements in his blood that might interact poorly with anti-nausea meds and pain relievers, where just trying to calm him down and get him to relax.
John was feeling plenty relaxed thank you, and a lot more loopy than any muscle relaxant should account for. It was like being on morphine by way of nitrous oxide. At least loopy was a whole lot better than feeling sick.
"The tech?" the doctor prompted.
John could only shrug his shoulders. "P’son said it was a training tool."
"Oh, for the love of –"
John could hear Rodney’s eyes roll. And he was pretty sure it was Rodney’s fingers petting his hair now, which was nice even though there was something bad about it too. He decided not to think about the bad.
"It was not a training device. As best as I can tell, having only had the opportunity to check the database in the time I had from Simpson’s call to when the Daedelus got into orbit over Area 51 and then teleported me up to dropped me off at the SGC in order to keep the Colonel’s brain from dribbling out his ears – and I only got a glimpse of the actual device, thank you, so I can’t be sure without actually spending time with it –I think it was a memory enhancement device. Something like the Tok’ra’s or maybe actually the original device that the Goa’uld or someone else then reversed engineered, but one that supposedly could be used without a controller." Rodney snorted.
"It was also a little too good in what it did, as the Colonel wasn’t just remembering something from his past, but was actually experiencing it all over again to the point that if he'd continued for much longer, his body would have manifested the original physical conditions too. Fortunately some part of the Colonel’s mind also seems to be able to see through memories, which slowed the progression. Unfortunately, that conflict produced convulsions and vomiting, which is gross and you owe me --"
"’rfing was from the first time," John corrected. "’n ‘sn’t convulsions, I was just shiv'ring cause it was s-so d-damn c-c-cold."
"Colonel… John, are you feeling cold now?"
John nodded and curled a little more inward despite hands that were trying to tug him straight.
"Can you describe what else you’re feeling, John? What you felt then and if you are still experiencing the symptoms?"
"’d’che," he said petulantly, because they wouldn’t let go of him. At least someone found him a blanket, had to be Rodney since the fingers had gone away and Rodney would have only left him to get him more help.
"Then or now? Colonel? Was the headache then or is it now?"
"’esss." John tried to reach out to Rodney even though that made his hand shake and his fingers freeze and grow numb so that he couldn’t feel anything with them. Couldn't feel anything.
"He’s going into shock. I need a --"
*****
"So he’s good to go?"
Normally John would have made some comment about being talked over, but in this instance he was more than happy to put his well being into Rodney’s hands, since they were such nice and capable hands.
"Why, thank you, Colonel," said the young doctor – Keller – John thought she’d finally introduced herself as and, oops, he’d said that last bit out loud. Maybe it would be okay since she’d thought he’d been happy to be in her hands than Rodney's. It wasn’t like he was going to necessarily see her again or work with her to have to worry about discouraging the wrong idea.
Except maybe Rodney would also think that John had meant her hands, given all the Kirk jokes and Rodney’s irrational jealousy and obsessive behavior any time John even talked to a woman – including Elizabeth or Teyla or even Kate Heightmeyer and –
"Whoa," John found himself swaying on his feet without remembering rising from the bed. Rodney was steadying him from one side while Doctor Cutie Keller had his other, and Rodney was squawking something again and, shit, had he called her Cutie outloud too? Rodney was never going to forgive him or give him sex again or --
John blinked. He wasn’t in the infirmary anymore. He wasn’t even on the Daedelus any longer, if his sense for being airborne (even in a spaceship) was remotely reliable right now. Or maybe it was the fact that he was lying in a bed larger than would fit in even Caldwell’s shipboard quarters, and John was pretty sure Caldwell didn’t even know what to do in a bed that size --
"We do not speculate on Colonel Caldwell’s bed and what he does or doesn’t do within, Sheppard. Ever. Rule number two, remember? Along with not speculating about Elizabeth or Teyla or Lorne’s bed --"
"Don’t need their beds, have Rodney’s bed. Only Rodney isn’t in it and that’s sad. Make’s me sad and Rodney sad because sometimes Rodney needs naps."
"I knew I should have made them find Carson instead of turning you over to Candy-Striper Barbie!"
"Stripper Barbie? I don’t think Santa would allow stripper Barbies, especially if they came with candy. Not even stripper Bratz although most of them do look like bobble-head hookers or Brittney Spears."
"And that’s enough happy juice for you, Colonel."
"Roddy? You got happy juice? You got good happy juice, the best happy juice and no citrus. I got no citrus anymore either to mess up my own happy juice."
"Fuck, John, only you would have the hangover before you got drunk. Hold still and let me stick you."
John let his legs fall apart, but then held perfectly still until he realized that Rodney wasn’t climbing into bed with him – on him – and that the sticking being offered was with a needle. John thought about pouting, but Rodney all too often proved immune to John’s pouting and he didn’t want to do anything that would make Rodney go away.
"I am not going away," Rodney’s lips ghosted the words against John’s temple before drifting down to become reacquainted with John’s own lips. Tongues rediscovered one another too, and John desperately wanted to reintroduce various other body parts after four weeks of having only the occasional phone call and jerk off fantasy while they’d been separated. Just concentrating on Rodney’s mouth was almost more than John could manage, however, despite absolutely worshipping Rodney’s mouth, and despite the fog that was beginning to clear from John’s head.
"Where…? We’re…We’re in Nevada?"
"Yes, John."
"Am I AWOL?"
"No, you’re on medical leave, John."
John only figured out his eyes had been closed because the exasperation he heard and imagined actually wasn’t. He could see it was really fondness, which only came out when John had maybe done something exceptionally stupid or marginally brave. Just like Bell, who was Rodney’s cat and had been born with brain damage so Rodney had rescued it from being put down and really, the only way you could tell Bell was a little off was because Bell sometimes walked into walls or fell off of laps by stretching too far and every story about Bell was accompanied by this same look –
"I’m not brain damaged." John felt the sudden need to defend himself. Jesus fuck, happy juice? Stories about Bell?
"No, you’re not," Rodney leaned back in close and kissed him on the nose, which was nice but not right, so John tried his own mapping of Rodney’s jaw and face which Rodney allowed too, but only for a little while and it certainly wasn’t as smooth as John usually was, but then sometimes it was hard to navigate in the dark when your instruments were off-line --
"Just hang on and give it a couple more minutes, John. Maybe you should stop talking if you’re only going to keep embarrassing yourself." Rodney had one hand on John’s shoulder and the other was cupping his jaw which was really nice even if Rodney was maybe mad at him.
John was talking? He didn't think so.
"I’m sorry, Rodney," because Rodney kept calling him John, and Rodney was obviously upset. John didn’t want Rodney to be upset any longer even if they weren’t going to keep kissing.
"Don’t you dare take the blame for Paulson’s criminal stupidity!"
"’Kay."
Now Rodney was on his feet and angrily pacing, which wasn’t any better. But John kept missing Rodney’s shoulder when he tried to offer a friendly or maybe comforting squeeze in return, and obviously squeezing Rodney’s elbow wasn’t helping.
Shit. Obviously it wasn't only John's eyes and coordination that weren't quite tracking.
"I thought Lee’s brand of incompetence was bad enough when Sam isn’t there to keep him in line, but at least Lee isn’t dangerous to anyone other than himself."
Oh, so maybe Rodney was talking to himself instead of John. John still didn’t want Rodney angry at himself either, and this time he managed to pull himself up a little and rest his back and shoulders against the headboard so he could see and maybe snag Rodney on his next walk by.
"Paulson, though, thinks he knows everything and that he’s infallible. While I’d like to see or hear something blow up in his face so he might learn a little humility, I’d prefer that it wasn’t also at your expense. So please don’t talk to him anymore."
John wasn’t sure he could actually do that at the SGC since he still had to go where he was directed and salute and say sir and it all really, really sucked, especially with Landry as his CO instead of Elizabeth. But he’d make that promise to Rodney anyway, and maybe if they sealed it with a kiss, it would come true --
"No, we can’t just have you keep away from him so it’s obvious that I’m just going to have to insist on being transferred back to take over control of the alien technology studies and therefore keep an eye on Paulson and all the rest." Rodney finally stopped pacing, but wasn't quite close enough.
"Or I could get Zelenka transferred back there because I can trust him to be less stupid. I certainly can’t count on Simpson always being lucky enough to walk by at the right time… Unless we could get you transferred out here?" Rodney at least turned in John's direction.
"We’d still have to be careful and have our own places, but we could spend the weekends in Vegas and everyone knows that what happens there…"
Rodney’s whole face lit up in a Eureka moment that John was happy to celebrate with another exchange of kissing except suddenly the frown that John thought was sexy but still hated because it made Rodney lopsided and all frowny was back and he was still too far away anyway--
"Except if they’re not going to let you fly anymore, they at least have to keep letting you go through the gate and I can’t offer you that in Nevada."
Sobriety and sanity came hand in hand with Rodney’s despair. John scrambled out from beneath the covers with no thought to a possible headache or head rush returning (and had only a faint pleased awareness that his body was able to do everything he was asking without the pain or muzziness of the last…day?). He managed to swing around and sit up just in time to take his turn in holding Rodney -- in holding them both up.
"I just want to go home, John," and of course Rodney meant Atlantis, and Teyla, Ronon, Liz and all the rest of their people.
"Me too, Buddy," because John felt exactly the same, yet home to John also just meant Rodney, who let him fly in the only way that mattered.
Only Landry wasn’t even let him have that, and John absolutely hated Earth and being under the Mountain. Hated that Rodney was in Nevada and that all of their people had been scattered across the globe and to alpha sites and allied bases.
John wasn’t sure when he’d ever be able to go home -- or be warm again.
--finis --
Author: Sian1359
For the SGA Flashfic F**king Freezing Challenge
Pairing: McShep
Rating: Teens plus for violent imagery and language(PG-13)
Category: H/C; Challenge
Spoilers: Takes place between The Return 1 & 2.
Word Count: 6,500
Notes: I have committed Flashfic. Odd, since most of my stories average 20,000 words or more, and I can’t write something in two months, much less two weeks. But lots of my friends and the other cool kids all seem to be hanging out here, so…
Disclaimers: Title, Summary and Opening Quote are all from the Evanescence lyric of the same title. I don’t own anything recognizable within and am just emulating the masters like Mallory and telling new folktales about someone else's characters.
Apologies for not having time to have this beta'ed.
Summary: Frozen inside without your touch, without your love
******
My spirit sleeping somewhere cold until you find it there and lead it back…home
The irony was killing him.
No, in reality it was his injuries that were killing him – or maybe the cold outside, which was rapidly freezing his insides. All in all, it would very likely be a race between the two and a coin toss for which would actually be listed as his cause of death. Either way though, dead was dead and it was absolutely fucking insane that he was going to die here. Trapped behind the wheel of a jeep, stuck halfway down the side of a mountain and no more than two hours from where he currently called home after having spent years in warzones all over the world, after having done a stint in Antarctica, and after having spent most of the last three years fighting against life-sucking aliens, homicidal robots and way too many psychotic humans in an entirely different galaxy. Not to mention all of the dangerous technology that could read his mind just because of a quirk in his genetics.
After all of those dangers, to finally be taken out by a SUV that had hit an icy patch…
John had a moment's concern for the other driver. Even if the pick-up had been going a little too fast for the road conditions, if John survived this he wasn't going to go after the other driver because of an unfortunately accident involving a blind curve and poor visibility. 'Course, his insurance company would probably have something different to say about just waving it off, but considering John would either be dead or finally deployed, any prosecution or collection efforts would be their problem.
Did insurance companies file claims against dead people?
Why had he thought dead? Okay, it was obviously the other driver was in a similar fix to John, but that didn’t have to mean dead. Except he could see himself at the funeral, saw the grieving widow and the parents but no kids, thank god.
No, he was just imagining that, was relieving Mitch, Dex or Holland’s funeral, or maybe Sumner’s, but the Colonel’s had been back on Atlantis, not at the same cemetery as Morton’s--
Forget about fucking funerals and concentrate on avoiding your own, John!
Okay, dusk had only just started falling when the accident had happened, but now it was fully dark. So at least a couple of hours had passed while he’d been unconscious. No one had come to check on them (him). He needed to find his cell phone, but the jeep’s CB radio wasn’t working, so he’d just have to get out and climb back up to the road.
John couldn’t see or hear any sign of the other vehicle being nearby, nor did he remember whether they’d both gone over the side.
The police had determined the driver had slammed into John’s sedan then spun and plowed into a tree along the roadside. He hadn’t needed to see the photos to know that when the front of the truck had caved in, it had pushed the engine block and steering through Morton’s body.
Memory and vision were both fuzzy and the symptoms of a concussion were too familiar for John to just pass them off and decide he’d get better and could wait for rescue. Hitting his head probably accounted for the cracked side window, while debris would account for the smashed windshield. Looking beyond the glass, he could make out that the snow had stopped sometime after he'd lost consciousness, but recently enough that an inch or so lay atop the car except for where the engine had melted it off the hood. A rising moon provided a faint reflection off of the snow, but that was really all he was seeing other than a whole lot of blurry shadows that might be the other car, some trees, the mountainside or a fucking circus of bears for all he could make out between eyes that felt swollen and gummed with blood or sweat or melted snow.
And images that seemed more like memories, but of stuff that couldn't have yet happened; maybe the concussion was really a skull fracture with some piece of bone pressing against his brain and lighting up memory or imagination or
The headache and the dizzying head rush weren’t just from the concussion John decided as he tried to straighten up. The jeep -- no, he'd been driving a sedan, but -- the vehicle was wedged against something at a thirty degree or so angle sideways and backwards as it had also spun a one-eighty at some point to end up facing back toward the top of the mountain. His seat had also broken free and his end had shifted against the backseat. While this had meant he hadn't ended up with the steering wheel caving in his chest (no air bags, thank you low-bid government contractors, wait, no, air bags didn’t exist yet, right?...but…what?), sometime during the car’s mogul run down the mountainside he’d still banged into it a couple of times going by the way his breathing hitched when he needed to draw in a deep one. Or maybe it was just the significant bruising striping his chest from the seatbelt that hurt so damn much when he tried to breathe.
Right, seatbelt, John, that’s why you can’t raise yourself. Wake the fuck up!
It took more coordination than it should have and John had to stop once to take a deep breath despite the pressure against his lungs to keep from vomiting. But he finally managed to unclip himself. Only when he started sliding sideways did he figure out why his subconscious might have decided it would be better to have not done that. That conclusion was then doubly reinforced when he tried to control his slide by grabbing hold of the steering wheel with his left hand. And missed.
Motherfucker!
Fiery pain licked up his left side, leaving no doubt that his head hadn’t been the only thing he’d banged into the door during the crash. His shoulder was either broken or dislocated and, as he now crumpled against the right door, something in his left knee twisted. The nausea he’d been fighting broke through and he coughed up a bit of bile, surprised but grateful when his lunch didn’t make a reappearance. The smell of blood, oil and leaking gas was enough to make his eyes water without having added regurgitated tacos. Only --
The commissary was on a health kick thanks to Doctor Lam, and most of the food offerings wouldn’t have been appealing even if John wasn’t having trouble reacclimating himself to Earth dishes. He didn’t care for power bars or MREs like Rodney (no one enjoyed them like Rodney), but at the moment they sounded better than salad and tofu. Maybe he'd do better to just wait and grab dinner off The Mountain.
Deciding black spots before his eyes were worse than hallucinations, John spent a few more moments curled over his waist still dry heaving instead of trying to straighten again. The tears he was blinking back were definitely from the ribs that were cracked instead of just bruised. Of course, the heaving in general, the agony spiking behind his knee, the throbbing from his head injury or just from being unable to duck from the fucking wind and snow that found its way through the cracked windows and torn canvas roof might also be contributing.
Fuck, the last time he’d been this banged up had been during college, had been the result of yet another accidental trip down a mountainside after a different day of snowboarding in which he’d received the same type of injuries --
No, not the same type, but exactly the same and that, like all of the other weird disconnects and blending between memory and reality he was experiencing, just wasn’t possible.
John blinked again and tried to engage his sluggish brain into figuring it out. Impossibilities generally meant intervention -- by either aliens or tech -- and it was obviously pretty important that John work it through. You could die in false realities, from neglecting his body's needs like food or water, or by his brain being convinced of catastrophic injury, or --
He needed to take care of his body and his injuries, needed to get out of the car/jeep/jumper? He needed to find a way back up the mountain or at least try to find a way to get warm before he passed out again and maybe this time didn’t wake back up.
Twisting at the waist, John tried to pull himself back up using his right hand on the steering wheel this time. That, however, put the strain back on his bruised chest and aching ribs as well as debilitating pressure on his knee. He could fight gravity or the limitations of his own body, but not both at the same time. So he was left with trying to smash through the windshield, since if he couldn’t even pull himself up he wasn’t going to be able to force a door that he could see from here had been bent inward and twisted on its frame.
Except his efforts there would only crack the safety glass further, as he didn’t have anything other than a booted foot to ram against it
He tried it only once, the knife point digging into his knee when he braced his damaged leg against the drive shaft hump to gain enough leverage to bash his other heel against the windshield. Switching legs wouldn’t work even if he was that flexible and remained conscious. While he might be able to drag himself up onto the dash to try an elbow, he’d have even less force or momentum to work it, especially if he took off his jacket to bundle it around his arm so he didn’t shred his skin on the edges.
Christ, something was definitely wrong. These memories/hallucinations were weird and, okay maybe it was only déjà vu, except this felt a lot like the Mist Planet all over again, and reliving Mitch and Dex’s funerals were bad enough without having to relive their fake resurrection again too. No, Mitch and Dex weren't fucking dead! The three of them had just been accepted into fighter jet training and --
"Sorry, Lieutenant Sheppard, but you’re looking at six months minimum of rehabilitation, then another few weeks to get back up to fitness standards. The slots at Luke and Altus already have waiting lists. Your CO said they can hold a slot at Kirtland with the Hueys and Pave Hawks for you, but if you pass on that, you’d have to attempt to requalify for a F-16 slot next year and --
And he’d gone the rotor-wing route instead of delaying his training for another year, had ended up deployed as a Combat Search and Rescue pilot in Bosnia instead of being one of the F-16 pilots he often had to go in for, and had ended meeting up with Mitch and Dex again in Afghanistan before they'd been taken out by a RPG. And he wasn’t a newly minted Air Force Second Lieutenant facing daunting rehabilitation, but was actually a Lieutenant Colonel, who'd recovered from those injuries and many others over the years. Nor had he had any opportunity to go snowboarding in at least half of those years.
Except he remembered the feel and condition of the slopes these last couple of days, and this morning's runs had been truly spectacular before the storm moved in --
"What the fuck are you idiots doing?"
Not exactly a good bedside manner for a rescue worker, but John supposed it might be a legitimate question considering the trouble he seemed to be in and how unsuccessful he was in trying to extract himself from his vehicle. Sounded like the other driver was alive too (no) since it had been idiots plural. Even better, John recognized that voice.
Yet how could he? He didn’t even live in this state, was only visiting and what would be the likelihood of running into someone he’d trained (served) with when he was hundreds of miles from any base?
So that skull fracture seemed to be a yes as he was having audio hallucinations if not also visual ones. Didn’t folks succumbing to hyperthermia usually just want to go to sleep?
Only John was not sleepy, was instead absolutely frantic to move, to get out and to get away. To let the abrasive yet totally comforting voice take over, because John knew he could trust it. Especially when he was so fucking cold and he hurt.
"No, I don’t care if he volunteered. He’s Air Force and he’s got a goddamn General looking over his shoulder. Of course he agreed!"
But John was the only one in the jeep (sedan). He was sure of that. He didn’t ski or 'board with Generals, nor would he have been driving a General somewhere else. They picked drivers they liked and trusted.
Punishment then? No, punishment for him would be confinement from a driver’s seat as well as from the cockpit. He and Generals just didn’t seem to get along, although there had been that one in Antarctica –
Was that where he really was? Antarctica and downed in his bird instead of trapped in a ground vehicle? Only --
"Stop! Don’t you fucking touch anything! You can’t just start grabbing things."
How could yelling be comforting? Why was yelling comforting?
"They have to be shut off and, since you geniuses needed him to turn it on in the first place, you’re obviously not going to be able to do anything but make it worse. Now tell me, what exactly did you tell him to do?"
What? Who? Oh…
Let’s start with simple concept, Colonel. Think about something cold.
Cold. Yes, by God, he was so fucking cold. He’d thought about cold, then remembered cold and --
Fuck! Off offOffOFF!
When John next opened his eyes he found himself still curled around his aching ribs, but he seemed to have stopped dry heaving. And his ribs hurt only because he’d been sick; his breathing was fine and there was no bruising… All of the aches -- his knee, his shoulder, the concussion -- none of them were real except the headache, were only phantom pains of former injuries. He wasn’t trapped in a jeep (or a car) that was stuck on a mountainside and buried under a couple inches of snow. He wasn’t in a copter either, no vehicle at all and not even in the chair he’d started this session in. Instead he was kneeling against the floor with the rest of his body folded over Rodney McKay’s lap. The scientists he’d started the afternoon with were all hovering nearby and helpless (worthless).
This was real. John wasn't sure how he knew, but he did know.
One of Rodney's big, warm hands was braced against the back of John’s neck while the other was clutching one of John’s own, trapped between their bodies. John still felt so damn cold, but everywhere he was touching Rodney, heat flared between them and he could almost forget (remember) everything.
"R’ney?"
"Colonel, good. Don't worry about them or about moving just yet."
The tone and address might be formal for the benefit of their audience, but the hand on John’s neck squeezed gently and where Rodney’s thumb was hidden between them, Rodney was rubbing in small soothing circles.
John nodded very carefully and really wished his headache had been a phantom pain too.
"Okay, now release your grip and just let go of the device."
John had no idea what Rodney was talking about, but even if he was mostly unconscious or half out of his mind (yes), three years in Atlantis had conditioned him to listen to Rodney and to never question him when Rodney's voice held that particular mixed tone of anger laced with true panic.
‘Course, obliging him was an easier in thought than in actual action. Until he felt Rodney’s fingers working their way between his to help. All at once John could feel the device that was nearly imbedded into his palm as deeply as it had apparently imbedded itself into his mind. He managed to think Off! once more for good measure, then let it drop. He tried to twist away as it fell to the floor between Rodney’s legs. As Rodney wasn’t any keener on being near it, together they managed an undignified scooching on knees and butt until there was a foot or more of distance between them and it.
"Should we call for a medical team?" someone asked from above them.
That sounded right, except John knew he didn’t want it to happen. Doctor Carolyn Lamb might be a terrific doctor, but she also ran her infirmary with a heavy hand and was as impersonal as any of the ones in Ramstein or at Walter Reed, and John was so tired of just being a set of dog tags. Lam was also Landry’s daughter, and John certainly didn’t need his new CO thinking him a lightweight or a goldbrick as well as the malcontent who hadn’t showed the proper appreciation for Landry finding him a place here at the SGC.
"Most people would have already done so when he first began shaking, or maybe after the gagging and convulsions."
Rodney had gone into full screed mode, with sarcasm outstripping even his anger, and John sometimes hated how much of a thrill that gave him – even when it was directed at him -- but especially when the haranguing was done on his behalf.
"Well, yes, but –"
"Don’t wet yourself, Paulson. And don’t fucking bother about it now. I’ve got it under control."
Of course Rodney had it under control. Rodney always did, at least when in the labs. Not that this was Rodney's lab or that Rodney was even supposed to be here, so Paulson had to be shitting kittens about now to have been usurped. John couldn’t work up much sympathy for Paulson, though.
The people working directly at Stargate Command were supposed to be better than their Atlantean counterparts (cast-offs), yet after four weeks, you certainly couldn’t prove it by John's experiences. Paulson and his group had gone directly to General Landry to make sure they got some of John’s time to test their Ancient tech (instead of just fucking asking him), plus they’d lied about knowing what this last thing was. Sure, maybe they’d just been wrong, but at least under the safety protocols Rodney’s team had put into place in Atlantis, there would have been someone else with the ATA gene nearby who could monitor and override the test if something went wrong.
His new gate team wasn’t any better; all three were so damn green despite their having been on dozens of missions before John had inherited them. Okay, there hadn’t been any crises to gel (or break) the team so far, but it wasn’t really like he was the FNG himself, to deserve a group of raw nuggets and a series of milkruns.
The lack of Ori confrontations or pissed-off natives shooting and chasing them to the gate should have been a good thing. John certainly never expected to miss the damn Wraith. But then he also never expected to have to miss being relevant again. Being replaced or reassigned as Atlantis' Military Commander or, hell, being just becoming dead was one thing and, when all was said and done, more or less accepted as being inevitable. But having the entire Atlantis expedition be sent packing and becoming redundant; to find he was now just one Lieutenant Colonel too many kicking around the SGC, to find he was a babysitter and once more just a goddamn light switch --
Okay, maybe he was no longer hallucinating, but he was obviously still out of it, just rambling in his mind and unable to focus even on Rodney's touch.
Rodney’s thumb had been rubbing up and down the back of John’s neck to the rhythm of John’s recovering heartbeat, but John only really noticed it when it suddenly went away. He twitched where he'd intended to rise up, wanting to protest but needing to move away and managing none of it. Fortunately Rodney figured knew him well enough to help him make it up as far as resting his head against Rodney’s chest and shoulder instead of his lap.
Leaning here really wasn’t any more appropriate, at least not with them being watched by people who were still part of the big Air Force like Landry, so John tried to push him away…to apologize or to criticize or—
"Shhh," was whispered against the top of his head and John was too wasted to keep protesting anyway. The injuries his body was still reacting to might not be real, but his migraine and nausea were, and his mind still thought he was cold, that he was fucking freezing actually –
"Triangulate on the Colonel’s and my signal, Hermiod, and beam us directly to the infirmary."
Rodney’s voice was suddenly a lot louder than his murmurs of comfort, but these new words were just as comforting, as being transported was much more efficient than trying to get up and walk. John had known Rodney would take care of him when Paulson hadn’t, so even the disorientation of being teleported was okay. As was the greater confusion when John discovered he hadn’t be relocated to the SGC’s infirmary but to the Daedelus’ instead. This at least explained how he’d ended up in Rodney’s lap in the first place, when the last John had known was that Rodney was still out in Area 51 and wasn’t due to make the trip from Nevada to Colorado for another couple of weeks.
The Daedelus wasn’t any safer to stay in Rodney’s arms than at the SGC, so John finally let the medics help him away despite really, really just wanting to hold on tighter and burrow into Rodney’s strength and warmth. He wasn’t really injured though, or even sick beyond what he guessed had been a bad reaction to some Ancient tech. Yet being fussed over by a doctor here on the Daedelus did let Rodney hover nearby; Caldwell’s people knew enough of the important things about Atlantis and her people not to object or disregard them.
"Okay, Colonel, let’s get you situated and feeling better. Doctor McKay, can you assist Rawlings here in getting him up on the bed?"
John was lifted to his feet and, while he swayed, he made sure to fall Rodney’s direction for one last bit of contact before being seated and then laid back. John managed to contain the moan, but had to close his eyes and could only hear something metal being grabbed and thrust under his mouth in case he hurled again. Fortunately he managed to stave off the nausea by concentrating on the fingers smoothing back his hair, even if they were too small to be Rodney’s.
"Doctor McKay, why don’t you tell me what’s happened?"
John wasn't sure if the speaker wasn't a nurse instead of a doctor, because someone else was drawing blood from John’s arm while the fingers continued to card through his hair.
"Other than the obvious, that the SGC employs fools and idiots?"
"How about we just stick with what happened to Colonel Sheppard," she neatly cut Rodney off, so maybe she was the doctor.
John didn't think Rodney would have backed down from just a nurse.
"You can continue with your imprecations once we’ve gotten the Colonel back on his feet."
"I’m pretty sure it’s just a tech hangover," John tried to speak for himself, although he was pretty anxious to hear Rodney too.
Tech hangover was the best that Carson and his people had been able to come up with to describe the occasional bad ATA gene interactions. This was probably the worst John had experienced – even over sitting in the control chair for hours running diagnostics with Rodney and Radek Zelenka. Neither Carson nor Rodney had been able to decide whether the morning after feeling was the result of not having enough genes in common with the Ancients to be able to work certain pieces of tech properly, or if the technology itself was at fault either by being prototypes or just byproducts of bad engineering.
The reappearance of Helia and her crew of pure blood Ancients should have given them the answer to that question and thousands more, except revived Ancients apparently weren’t anymore forthcoming or helpful than the ascended or descended ones. This group had immediately seen the Atlantis expedition as interlopers and had sent John’s people packing as quickly as they could. While John wasn't always keen to have the ATA gene, this had been the first time he’d been angry (ashamed) to share ancestors with such arrogant, pissy, ungrateful bastards –
"This seems a little more than just a hangover," the doctor commented softly as something was injected into John’s veins instead of just more stuff coming out.
"Yes, well, misused tech is definitely part of it," Rodney started with his explanations. "Doctor Simpson called me after she’d passed by one of the labs and noticed that Colonel Sheppard was working alone with Paulson and his interns. Devon Paulson is currently the lead on the Ancient tech classifications at the SGC and doesn’t have two braincells to rub together and figure out fire, much less figure out how to handle Ancient tech," Rodney just couldn’t help himself.
John found it rather funny how someone so fucking smart could be so easily distracted.
"Did you just giggle?" Rodney asked.
It took John a few seconds to realize the question had been directed his way and so he giggled again.
"What have you –"
"It’s just a simple muscle relaxant, Doctor McKay. Until we can make sure there are no foreign elements in his blood that might interact poorly with anti-nausea meds and pain relievers, where just trying to calm him down and get him to relax.
John was feeling plenty relaxed thank you, and a lot more loopy than any muscle relaxant should account for. It was like being on morphine by way of nitrous oxide. At least loopy was a whole lot better than feeling sick.
"The tech?" the doctor prompted.
John could only shrug his shoulders. "P’son said it was a training tool."
"Oh, for the love of –"
John could hear Rodney’s eyes roll. And he was pretty sure it was Rodney’s fingers petting his hair now, which was nice even though there was something bad about it too. He decided not to think about the bad.
"It was not a training device. As best as I can tell, having only had the opportunity to check the database in the time I had from Simpson’s call to when the Daedelus got into orbit over Area 51 and then teleported me up to dropped me off at the SGC in order to keep the Colonel’s brain from dribbling out his ears – and I only got a glimpse of the actual device, thank you, so I can’t be sure without actually spending time with it –I think it was a memory enhancement device. Something like the Tok’ra’s or maybe actually the original device that the Goa’uld or someone else then reversed engineered, but one that supposedly could be used without a controller." Rodney snorted.
"It was also a little too good in what it did, as the Colonel wasn’t just remembering something from his past, but was actually experiencing it all over again to the point that if he'd continued for much longer, his body would have manifested the original physical conditions too. Fortunately some part of the Colonel’s mind also seems to be able to see through memories, which slowed the progression. Unfortunately, that conflict produced convulsions and vomiting, which is gross and you owe me --"
"’rfing was from the first time," John corrected. "’n ‘sn’t convulsions, I was just shiv'ring cause it was s-so d-damn c-c-cold."
"Colonel… John, are you feeling cold now?"
John nodded and curled a little more inward despite hands that were trying to tug him straight.
"Can you describe what else you’re feeling, John? What you felt then and if you are still experiencing the symptoms?"
"’d’che," he said petulantly, because they wouldn’t let go of him. At least someone found him a blanket, had to be Rodney since the fingers had gone away and Rodney would have only left him to get him more help.
"Then or now? Colonel? Was the headache then or is it now?"
"’esss." John tried to reach out to Rodney even though that made his hand shake and his fingers freeze and grow numb so that he couldn’t feel anything with them. Couldn't feel anything.
"He’s going into shock. I need a --"
*****
"So he’s good to go?"
Normally John would have made some comment about being talked over, but in this instance he was more than happy to put his well being into Rodney’s hands, since they were such nice and capable hands.
"Why, thank you, Colonel," said the young doctor – Keller – John thought she’d finally introduced herself as and, oops, he’d said that last bit out loud. Maybe it would be okay since she’d thought he’d been happy to be in her hands than Rodney's. It wasn’t like he was going to necessarily see her again or work with her to have to worry about discouraging the wrong idea.
Except maybe Rodney would also think that John had meant her hands, given all the Kirk jokes and Rodney’s irrational jealousy and obsessive behavior any time John even talked to a woman – including Elizabeth or Teyla or even Kate Heightmeyer and –
"Whoa," John found himself swaying on his feet without remembering rising from the bed. Rodney was steadying him from one side while Doctor Cutie Keller had his other, and Rodney was squawking something again and, shit, had he called her Cutie outloud too? Rodney was never going to forgive him or give him sex again or --
John blinked. He wasn’t in the infirmary anymore. He wasn’t even on the Daedelus any longer, if his sense for being airborne (even in a spaceship) was remotely reliable right now. Or maybe it was the fact that he was lying in a bed larger than would fit in even Caldwell’s shipboard quarters, and John was pretty sure Caldwell didn’t even know what to do in a bed that size --
"We do not speculate on Colonel Caldwell’s bed and what he does or doesn’t do within, Sheppard. Ever. Rule number two, remember? Along with not speculating about Elizabeth or Teyla or Lorne’s bed --"
"Don’t need their beds, have Rodney’s bed. Only Rodney isn’t in it and that’s sad. Make’s me sad and Rodney sad because sometimes Rodney needs naps."
"I knew I should have made them find Carson instead of turning you over to Candy-Striper Barbie!"
"Stripper Barbie? I don’t think Santa would allow stripper Barbies, especially if they came with candy. Not even stripper Bratz although most of them do look like bobble-head hookers or Brittney Spears."
"And that’s enough happy juice for you, Colonel."
"Roddy? You got happy juice? You got good happy juice, the best happy juice and no citrus. I got no citrus anymore either to mess up my own happy juice."
"Fuck, John, only you would have the hangover before you got drunk. Hold still and let me stick you."
John let his legs fall apart, but then held perfectly still until he realized that Rodney wasn’t climbing into bed with him – on him – and that the sticking being offered was with a needle. John thought about pouting, but Rodney all too often proved immune to John’s pouting and he didn’t want to do anything that would make Rodney go away.
"I am not going away," Rodney’s lips ghosted the words against John’s temple before drifting down to become reacquainted with John’s own lips. Tongues rediscovered one another too, and John desperately wanted to reintroduce various other body parts after four weeks of having only the occasional phone call and jerk off fantasy while they’d been separated. Just concentrating on Rodney’s mouth was almost more than John could manage, however, despite absolutely worshipping Rodney’s mouth, and despite the fog that was beginning to clear from John’s head.
"Where…? We’re…We’re in Nevada?"
"Yes, John."
"Am I AWOL?"
"No, you’re on medical leave, John."
John only figured out his eyes had been closed because the exasperation he heard and imagined actually wasn’t. He could see it was really fondness, which only came out when John had maybe done something exceptionally stupid or marginally brave. Just like Bell, who was Rodney’s cat and had been born with brain damage so Rodney had rescued it from being put down and really, the only way you could tell Bell was a little off was because Bell sometimes walked into walls or fell off of laps by stretching too far and every story about Bell was accompanied by this same look –
"I’m not brain damaged." John felt the sudden need to defend himself. Jesus fuck, happy juice? Stories about Bell?
"No, you’re not," Rodney leaned back in close and kissed him on the nose, which was nice but not right, so John tried his own mapping of Rodney’s jaw and face which Rodney allowed too, but only for a little while and it certainly wasn’t as smooth as John usually was, but then sometimes it was hard to navigate in the dark when your instruments were off-line --
"Just hang on and give it a couple more minutes, John. Maybe you should stop talking if you’re only going to keep embarrassing yourself." Rodney had one hand on John’s shoulder and the other was cupping his jaw which was really nice even if Rodney was maybe mad at him.
John was talking? He didn't think so.
"I’m sorry, Rodney," because Rodney kept calling him John, and Rodney was obviously upset. John didn’t want Rodney to be upset any longer even if they weren’t going to keep kissing.
"Don’t you dare take the blame for Paulson’s criminal stupidity!"
"’Kay."
Now Rodney was on his feet and angrily pacing, which wasn’t any better. But John kept missing Rodney’s shoulder when he tried to offer a friendly or maybe comforting squeeze in return, and obviously squeezing Rodney’s elbow wasn’t helping.
Shit. Obviously it wasn't only John's eyes and coordination that weren't quite tracking.
"I thought Lee’s brand of incompetence was bad enough when Sam isn’t there to keep him in line, but at least Lee isn’t dangerous to anyone other than himself."
Oh, so maybe Rodney was talking to himself instead of John. John still didn’t want Rodney angry at himself either, and this time he managed to pull himself up a little and rest his back and shoulders against the headboard so he could see and maybe snag Rodney on his next walk by.
"Paulson, though, thinks he knows everything and that he’s infallible. While I’d like to see or hear something blow up in his face so he might learn a little humility, I’d prefer that it wasn’t also at your expense. So please don’t talk to him anymore."
John wasn’t sure he could actually do that at the SGC since he still had to go where he was directed and salute and say sir and it all really, really sucked, especially with Landry as his CO instead of Elizabeth. But he’d make that promise to Rodney anyway, and maybe if they sealed it with a kiss, it would come true --
"No, we can’t just have you keep away from him so it’s obvious that I’m just going to have to insist on being transferred back to take over control of the alien technology studies and therefore keep an eye on Paulson and all the rest." Rodney finally stopped pacing, but wasn't quite close enough.
"Or I could get Zelenka transferred back there because I can trust him to be less stupid. I certainly can’t count on Simpson always being lucky enough to walk by at the right time… Unless we could get you transferred out here?" Rodney at least turned in John's direction.
"We’d still have to be careful and have our own places, but we could spend the weekends in Vegas and everyone knows that what happens there…"
Rodney’s whole face lit up in a Eureka moment that John was happy to celebrate with another exchange of kissing except suddenly the frown that John thought was sexy but still hated because it made Rodney lopsided and all frowny was back and he was still too far away anyway--
"Except if they’re not going to let you fly anymore, they at least have to keep letting you go through the gate and I can’t offer you that in Nevada."
Sobriety and sanity came hand in hand with Rodney’s despair. John scrambled out from beneath the covers with no thought to a possible headache or head rush returning (and had only a faint pleased awareness that his body was able to do everything he was asking without the pain or muzziness of the last…day?). He managed to swing around and sit up just in time to take his turn in holding Rodney -- in holding them both up.
"I just want to go home, John," and of course Rodney meant Atlantis, and Teyla, Ronon, Liz and all the rest of their people.
"Me too, Buddy," because John felt exactly the same, yet home to John also just meant Rodney, who let him fly in the only way that mattered.
Only Landry wasn’t even let him have that, and John absolutely hated Earth and being under the Mountain. Hated that Rodney was in Nevada and that all of their people had been scattered across the globe and to alpha sites and allied bases.
John wasn’t sure when he’d ever be able to go home -- or be warm again.
--finis --
