Salt Of The Earth 2

Worse Things Than Love

by Dasha

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/asd/dasha/saltof02.php
Summary: As expected, Rodney is an excellent patient: cooperative, well mannered, and focused. Ahem. No.

The next morning, Rodney's fever broke. At once, he felt much, much better. Almost clearheaded. Hungry. Bored. Carson let him sit up and drink half a cup of decaf coffee. Frustratingly, irritatingly, he fell asleep before he'd had more than a couple of swallows. He also fell asleep five minutes into Teyla's visit. And Elizabeth's. And Simpson's.

In the early evening--sometime after the medical staff's shift-change--Sheppard showed up with Rodney's laptop. "My god, you're kidding!" Rodney scrambled for the manual bed control. "I love you!" A full second passed before Rodney realized what he'd said. Sheppard was already leaning forward to set the computer in Rodney's lap. Rodney blushed. "I, um. I meant--"

"It's okay. I know what you meant."

"I don't want to embarrass you or anything."

"*I'm* not embarrassed. Look, have I ever acted embarrassed?"

"Which, ah, brings up the question of how long, er...."

Sheppard shrugged. "Sometime last year?" he said.

"And you're not....I mean, a lot of guys," straight guys, military guys, macho guys, "a lot of guys would have a problem with somebody, you know...."

Sheppard leaned over and whispered in his ear, "I'm not actually as stupid as I look."

"Right. Sorry."

"Here." Sheppard opened the computer.

Happily, Rodney called up the file he'd made for the nanite manufacturing facility. The data captures were all there. The maintenance logs he'd started. His notes. Before he'd decided which file to open, he had fallen asleep again.

The next day he was allowed raspberry jello for lunch. By this time, Rodney was all but dreaming of steaks: four-legged-and-woolly or two-legged-and-fast or even three-legged-and-scaly. Jello was hardly a steak, but it was a start.

Also, the company was good. Sheppard had delivered the Jello, and he'd brought his own mystery-meat sandwich with him.

"Bite," Rodney demanded. "One bite."

"No, and we have to talk."

"We do?" Rodney said around a mouth full of jello.

"Rodney, you're going to have a pretty miserable day tomorrow."

"Predicting the future now, Colonel?"

"They're going to get you on your feet tomorrow. They need to get you moving. For your muscles. And stuff. The sooner they get you up, the better off you'll be."

"And this is going to hurt," Rodney guessed.

"Apparently not too much. It's been a few days. And you've been responding really well to the pain meds. But it's going to be tedious, and difficult. And maybe a little scary." He was speaking very slowly and softly. Careful. Gentle. The whole thing was making Rodney suspicious.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"At risk of setting off your ego, McKay, your health and wellbeing are at the top of everybody's priority list right now."

"Strangely, that isn't as gratifying as you'd think."

"You get your own staff meeting. Twice a day."

Er. Crap. "How nice."

"This is the problem: You're not very cooperative. In fact, it's been observed that you have an unusual amount of experience with medical, ah, things. When things get rough and you get... upset... you don't trust anybody. You fight *everybody* over every little thing. You've already got the entire medical staff terrorized. They're almost all in your department, because they do research on the side...."

"Oh. My. God. And they've enlisted you to--what? They think you can get around me? Is that it? Oh, god! Do they *know*? Does everybody--"

A strong, lean hand closed on Rodney's arm. "Stop. Nobody knows."

"Elizabeth knows--"

"Well, fine. She's not talking. I got drafted into this because I'm neither your boss nor your subordinate and I'm your friend."

"So you're here to talk me into taking it easy on Carson's staff," Rodney said sourly. He felt betrayed. Surly more than the situation warranted. Rodney set the empty Jello dish aside and reached for the control to let the bed down. He'd go back to sleep....

"No. You can say whatever you want to the medical staff. They can take it. But you have to do what they tell you." He sighed. "It's going to be pretty miserable. Apparently. But you have to cooperate, Rodney. I'm sorry."

"Oh."

"I'll be here. For the first couple of days, if you need me. But Elizabeth wants to go back to the mine on Ithna Son and I...."

"You have to go with her."

"Rodney--"

"I've got it. Cooperate. Get moving. Get better."

"I need you, Rodney. And I miss you."

Rodney closed his eyes. "Who figured out they could use you to manipulate me?"

As though trying to prove what a lousy manipulator he was, Sheppard answered promptly, "Carson and Heitmeyer. For the record, I'm happy to help. If you don't get with the program, I will come in and kick your butt."

The next day Carson and one of the nurses took Rodney to PT. He'd been warned that it would be hard and tedious. He hadn't been warned it would be embarrassing. It took two Marine medics just to get Rodney out of bed and into the wheelchair, which, really? was pretty much *enough* all by itself. But they hadn't even started yet.

All they wanted him to do was stand, and Rodney couldn't really manage that. Even with help on both sides, he swayed and shook. Stretching *hurt* with a new kind of weird pain that didn't seem too bad, but made him gasp and sweat.

Standing up straight, shifting the weight of his upper body onto his hips, keeping his balance even for a moment was weirdly--frighteningly--just beyond his ability. Rodney's mouth seemed to have a mind of his own. He let both of them have it, Carson and the nurse. He said every nasty thing he could think of. Every nasty thing but 'no.' He had promised Sheppard.

When they finally wheeled him back and heaved him into bed, Rodney very slowly curled himself into a ball. He took deep breaths, trying not to think about weeks, *weeks*, of this.

Sheppard, when he showed up an eternity later, was bearing soup. "There are some noodles in it," he offered.

Rodney thought of the work involved in turning onto his back and sitting up. "Go away," he muttered.

He put the soup down and leaned down level with Rodney's eyes. "What's wrong? You okay?"

"Not going away, then," Rodney said sourly. "So? What did Carson say? How'd I do?"

"He didn't say anything. He seems in a good mood, so I'd say he's optimistic."

"I know he gave you a report--"

Still leaning down, Sheppard said, "No, he didn't. If you need something from me, he'll let me know. But I'm not... I am not taking over your life, here."

"I hate that they can use you this way. You can talk me into anything...."

"I don't." He sat on the bed. Rodney would have scooted away if he could. "Everybody needs somebody close to them. Somebody who can help them through crap like this. At home it would be family. Or old friends. Or, you know, partners. Out here, we've got nobody but us. If it were Teyla, by the way, I'd do the same thing. You know. If Teyla were contentious and abusive and profoundly uncooperative."

"Thanks," Rodney muttered. He knew it was teasing, and that he was meant to find it reassuring. He *should* have found it reassuring. John being smart and playful and unintimidated was a cornerstone of Rodney's universe. It had gotten him through many away missions that were miserable and/or terrifying.

A solid, warm hand on his shoulder. "So, is this a mood swing? They warned me there'd be mood swings." This fell flat as well, and Sheppard sighed. "Okay. Let's get you turned over and sitting up, okay? Try some of the soup? It's good."

For the next few days, Sheppard joined him for breakfast and dinner. Sometimes, with dinner, he brought DVDs: a hockey game, the Twilight Zone, Kolchak the Night Stalker. Lunch was Elizabeth or Teyla and--once--Ronon. In between, there was physical therapy twice a day, a lot of napping, and his department's paperwork.

The puddlejumper team was despondent. Yes, you could reverse engineer something that had been built from the molecule up, but you could never hope to match the original quality. Rodney wanted to slap them--would have chewed them out if it would have been worth the effort--for being short-sighted and stupid. The technology to build microscopically existed, and therefore could be learned (if not outright stolen). If they changed their sights to the nanite factory, they could *make* puddlejumpers and shields and ZedPMs....

It might be worthwhile, even, to start thinking about how to make zero point energy compatible with native Earth technologies on a large scale. Unless, of course, Stargate Command and the International Committee decided that they didn't have the resources and time to invest in a long term project without guaranteed results.

Rodney daydreamed a lot about what he could do with an unlimited supply of ZedPMs. On the second day, when he managed three steps (tiny steps, and clinging to one of the big nurse's arms) and Carson fussed for fifteen minutes about how *well* Rodney was doing, he began planning the star drive he could build if power consumption weren't an option.

A couple of days later, Sheppard couldn't stay to watch video after dinner. "Mission prep," he said. "You know the drill."

Rodney did. "What time are you leaving?"

"Oh-four-thirty. We want to make local dawn, since it's such a long hike from the gate."

"Ouch. How much would they charge us to build a landing pad?" Rodney asked.

"Elizabeth will try to make a deal for that this trip. But she's not optimistic. We're really attractive trading partners, but all the cool stuff that makes us attractive trading partners also makes us kind of scary."

Rodney scowled. "And then there's our reputation as rapacious thieves for everything Ancient."

"They've apologized for the misunderstanding," he said. "It turns out embarrassment and regret are good for loads of goodwill."

Rodney folded his arms and scowled. "Embarrassment. Regret. Abject terror."

"Rodney. They offered us Milla's life for the offense."

Rodney blinked. "Who?"

"The engineer who attacked you."

"Oh. The bimbo."

Abruptly, Sheppard stood up and paced restlessly in Rodney's little alcove. "Are you trying to pick a fight? Really?"

"No. Of course not," he said shortly.

"Because I'm not allowed to argue with you. Carson has a list as long as my arm, and every second item is either 'no fighting' and 'don't upset him'."

"No. I'm not trying to pick a fight. Why would I be--"

"Are you mad that I... that I wasn't there?"

"Of course not. You were following instructions. My instructions."

"It's not my job to be an engineer," Sheppard said softly. "It's my job to protect you."

"From that tiny woman? Please. If you can't even leave me alone with one--one--ignorant, dirty, little native, I have no business going on missions in the first place."

"What exactly are you mad at here? You losing a fight? You getting hurt? Me not being there? Or is it something else?"

"I'm not mad," Rodney said through his teeth.

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. If we could put off the mission, I would. You know that, right? We'll only be gone for a few days."

"I'm not mad."

"Right. Sure. We're setting up a repeating tower, so we can check in once a day."

"How nice. I hope the wind doesn't rip it to pieces. I hear it's the storm season over there."

Sheppard sighed. "So, I'll see you when we get back."

"Great."

Rodney dozed until Carson came in to give him a bath. It was only a sponge bath, but with the stitches in such a central location, it was the only kind of wash Rodney could get and usually he was delighted to get even that clean. This time Rodney closed his eyes again and pretended he wanted to go back to sleep. "What are you doing this for, anyway? You're the department head. Doctors are supposed to be too good for this sort of menial task."

"Oh, aye, but the nursing staff is threatening a strike, and while they can't actually go through with it, I can't afford the drop in morale." He pulled Rodney's sheets away and began to lay out the towels.

"Strike? Over what?"

"You're a bit hard on them, Rodney."

Surprised, Rodney cast his memory back, trying to picture what could upset Carson's very solid medical staff. "No, really," he said.

"The phrase 'verbal abuse' came up several times. Actually, it wouldn't be a problem, if I had a big enough staff to rotate or they weren't actually afraid of you." He ripped open the packet of warmed disposable towelettes.

"Afraid of me? Oh, please. I'm the least dangerous person in the galaxy."

One strong, competent hand lifted Rodney's left arm. "Quite true. Except when you're the most dangerous person in the galaxy."

Rodney turned his face away and stared at the wall.

The next few days went on pretty much the same, except that now almost all of Rodney's friends were off-planet, so there were no more friendly visits. The medical staff was polite and patient, if not nearly gentle enough. Compliant.

That compliance was a reminder of just how seriously Rodney had been hurt. He didn't need the reminder. Also....

Also--and it felt kind of weird to think of it like this--he was being treated like a valuable, irreplaceable resource. He wasn't completely irreplaceable, but even with the entire planet Earth providing the pool of physicists, there were never enough. Of the people alive who had the capacity to do Rodney's job, one was Sam Carter, who would never give up the SGC; one was Kinski, who was in his early seventies; one was Wong, who was insane, which was bad, and erratic, which was a deal breaker; and one was Svetlana Markov, who was being treated for radiation exposure from an experiment that went wrong and rumor said wouldn't live out the year. There was nobody else who was even close.

Job security was nice, and Rodney had been griping for years about his own importance. In fact, he'd been relying on his irreplaceablity as a safeguard to his safety since he got to this insane galaxy. Now, with Carson's staff watching him continually and jumping at his every whim, the recognition of his importance was irrefutable. Absolute proof of his value should have been extremely gratifying.

It wasn't.

Two or three days after Sheppard and the others returned to the mine--it was getting hard to keep track of time--Rodney was wheeled back from PT to find Miko waiting in his alcove. She was practically quivering with nervousness, and, unusually, her edginess wasn't directed at him.

"What?" Rodney asked shortly as the nurse half-lifted him into bed. He was wearing a kind of long tunic, since the waistband of pants was still out of the picture, and he wasn't fond of the idea of being seen like this. His knees were hanging out. His lower legs looked pasty. His feet were in bright yellow slippers. Damn.

"Dr. McKay, I'm sorry to bother you, but we've got a power problem."

"Now? I'm a little indisposed."

"We're losing power. Not like that. Misplacing it. The power is there, but we don't know where all of it has been going."

"How much?" Rodney asked.

"Almost two gigawatts today."

Rodney blinked. "Well, on the one hand, that's a lot. On the other hand, we won't miss it. We've got the power."

She handed him a tablet computer. "But we don't know where it's going. There's a systems malfunction and we can't find it. And it's getting worse."

The tablet held long strings of numbers, Ancient and English headings side by side. Rodney frowned, trying to make sense of it. "How much worse?"

"Well, the first day, it was just a few kilowatts. Sometimes it's nothing. But last night, it was a gigawatt in less than an hour, and we couldn't figure out where or how--"

"How many days has this been going on?" Rodney asked sharply.

"Um, four?" she said nervously.

"And you're mentioning this now?" Rodney closed his eyes briefly and then turned to the tablet. Something that had a large capacity was obvious, right? Because nothing had blown up or mysteriously melted. What? What? "That emitter? The one, um, Jorgenson was playing with. Has anybody checked that?"

"He shut that project down Thursday. The emitter isn't connected to anything."

The numbers on the tablet were power consumption figures. He switched to graphing view, hoping a nice, three-color picture would make more sense. Rodney stopped. "Thursday?" What day was it now?

Rodney tried to picture the main power system; both the original configuration and the modifications he'd made. Because, really, the ZedPM and its interfaces were his baby. He had been in charge of the initial analysis on Earth. He had configured the converters and capacitors that connected Earth technology to Ancient power sources. Yes, he did stargates and shield technology and he dabbled in propulsion (because space-ship drive systems were just too cool to pass up). But this--this--was his.

Rodney squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Has anybody walked through the corridors with a scanner looking for something unusual?"

"Simpson ran internal scans from control all day yesterday. But no, we didn't--"

"Never mind." Central scans were a better idea. Rodney glanced at the time bug in the corner of his screen. Somehow, all this had taken nearly twenty minutes. Where had the time gone? Why hadn't he managed even one good idea? "Give me your radio." She obeyed at once, but not nearly fast enough. "Give me. Give me." He jammed it onto his ear. "Simpson, this is McKay. Shut everything that's not Class One down and run a diagnostic on that. If you don't find the problem, bring up the grid one section at a time."

"*We can't just shut off the power without warning--*"

Rodney gritted his teeth. "Well, obviously, give people ten minutes to shut off their urgent experiments on plankton or whatever. Oh, and hook medical up to a generator." It was an ugly, wasteful, graceless solution. In fact, it was probably an effort to avoid doing that that had gotten them to send Miko to him in the first place. But, apparently, Rodney McKay (brilliant, inspired, lightyears ahead of his peers) couldn't do his job anymore.

When they brought the shields online three hours later, they found an unaccountable power drain. Rodney heard they spent the next day and a half looking for the shunt that had failed. They had to be all tested, since the power uptake of the shields continually shifted, even when they were on standby and should be drawing minimal energy.

For his part, Rodney spent the day sleeping.

He told himself it wasn't a big deal. He was sure he was right. So he couldn't concentrate for more than thirty seconds at a time on something he ought to be able to do in his sleep. So what? He was recovering from major surgery. He'd lost nearly eight inches of his small intestine. He was exhausted. Anyway, everyone knew that heavy duty pain meds and anesthesia had side affects that lasted for days, sometimes for weeks.

He had a lot on his mind. There was a lot of recovering to do. That didn't mean he wouldn't recover. He would. He'd get it all back. Give him a month or two and he'd be fine.

Carson, trying to cheer him up, brought him pizza for dinner the next night. It was real pizza, with crust made from wheat and tomato sauce and real cheese. The meat was kind-of-like-a-yak-with-feathers instead of Canadian bacon, but hey, Rodney wasn't picky. The taste of basil was pure heaven. Fake mozzarella didn't stretch like the real thing. It was wonderful.

It was the first meal he'd actually had to chew since the injury. For days it had been soup, mashed vegetables, something that reminded him of deviled ham, and Jello. He felt almost human.

The next morning he got the visit from Heitmeyer. He supposed there were serious things he ought to talk about, but he didn't want to. Instead, he let himself use her as a captive audience for an hour-long gripe about the discomfort, loss of work-time, inconvenience, and general unfairness of the universe. It seemed to have the effect of convincing her that he was completely sane and himself, without entangling him in any sort of complex analysis of his feelings or anxieties. He couldn't have stood that. Not yet, anyway.

After Heitmeyer was morning PT. That was starting to be routine, now. Boring and tedious and a little frustrating. Exhausting. Absurd, if you stopped to think about the ridiculous amount of effort it took to cling to a bar and take half a dozen tiny steps forward. But it had stopped being an infinite source of new horrors.

Or it had until the big nurse helped ease him to his feet and Rodney felt something gently *give* rearward, and ooze and damp he felt too late and couldn't stop. Rodney froze, astonished.

"What's wrong?" the nurse asked.

Rodney didn't answer. What he thought had happened--no. Just no.

"Dr. McKay?"

Rodney didn't answer.

The nurse sniffed slightly. "Oh, we've had an accident. Here, let me set you down, and I'll--"

"Set me down? Are you completely out of your mind? I am not sitting in this!" His voice, when he found it, was a shriek at top volume.

"It's just a little accident," the nurse said reasonably, as though Rodney didn't have anything to be upset about. "It's not even completely unexpected--"

"*I* wasn't expecting it!" Rodney was aware, dimly, that he was starting to hyperventilate. He found he didn't care. He had just *soiled himself*. After that, he might as well pass out and die.

The nurse called Carson, who only tisked gently and then stripped off the soiled tunic and cleaned Rodney's rear and legs. It wasn't the first time that he'd been helped with 'hygiene,' but it was only the third bowel movement he'd had at all. Rodney still couldn't bend well enough to reach back and help, even.

It seemed to take forever.

When they had him dressed again, Rodney refused to go on with the session. Carson coaxed and Carson ordered. Rodney told him to go to hell.

"I realize you're having a rough time, lad," Carson said with uncrackable, professional patience, "but you've got to give a thought to your recovery--"

"Listen, you quack, do you think I didn't notice you increased my stool softener when you gave me the pizza? Did you actually screw it up, or is it all just a crap-shoot because, hey, apparently this 'wasn't unexpected.' So pardon me, but I think I can manage without your help for awhile."

He had never seen Carson Beckett defeated by a patient before. Gotten round, yes. Talked into things he would rather not allow but could accept as necessary, sure. Indulge, even, he'd seen that. Defeat was new, though. Rodney had never seen it, but there was no mistaking the moment Carson's face went blank and he physically took a step away from Rodney. "Take him back to his bed," he said.

Rodney refused to eat lunch. He was afraid of how he might see it again. That gave him a headache, so he gave in and ate dinner. It was stew, an Athosian recipe. Mostly, it was made of soft, high-protein tubers.

Later, sometime deep in the city's night, Rodney woke to the sound of footsteps in his alcove. "Carson, I don't want to talk about it."

The answering voice was soft, the accent not Scottish but American. "Did I wake you? I assumed the fuss around the corner--"

Rodney's eyes popped open. "John!" he said, easing as quickly as possible on to his back. He thought the lights on and tried to focus on adjusting the bed so he could sit up. "When did you get back?"

"Just now. Everybody else is lined up for the post-mission exam." He did look dirty and tired, Rodney noticed. His hair looked wilted. He smiled suddenly. "You look great, McKay."

"Very funny."

"No, really. When I left you were still kind of grey. You know. And not, ah, alert. You look good."

"Thanks," Rodney said, because it was the only nice thing he could think of, and if he said anything else, Sheppard might leave.

"Carson said you had a rough day."

"Oh, really? Did he give you details?"

Sheppard shook his head. "I don't need details, if you don't want to talk about it."

"Why wouldn't I want to talk about it? Apparently it wasn't a big deal. Apparently, it wasn't even unexpected." It occurred to him that he wasn't sure what was worse; the knowledge that Carson could make a mistake or the feeling that Carson had betrayed him.

"Rodney." The gentle, warning voice that usually re-directed his attention or diverted a burgeoning panic. This time he ignored it, because he wasn't panicked. He was just pissed.

"I shit myself, John. There wasn't any warning." Then he realized what he'd said, and cringed, because as bad as it had been to have happen, having people know about it was completely awful in its own, unique way. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, looking away. "TMI, I know. How fair is that--I can't even complain--"

"Rodney. Rodney."

"I know I promised I could do this, but I--I'm sorry--"

"Rodney, cut it out."

Rodney pressed his teeth together. It occurred to him that when Sheppard was really angry with him, he didn't say anything at all. As long as Sheppard was impatient or mildly irritated, they were okay.

"I'm really sorry you had a bad day. I'm really sorry I can't do anything about it. But I can't."

Rodney closed his eyes. "Well, duh."

"But you're missing the point, which is, when," here he had to stop and take a deep breath, "when you were hurt we knew that getting you fixed up was going to be hard." In the clear glow of Ancient lighting Sheppard suddenly seemed very pale. "Stopping the bleeding and getting you help and watching that *witchdoctor* cauterize the torn blood vessels with what was essentially a hot poker... Ronon ran for miles over rough terrain, racing to the gate. Alone, I sent him out alone. When we carried you up to the plateau, to the jumper, you were out for that, so you don't know... how hard... It's all been hard. Hard for us, worse for you. It's been uphill all the way, Rodney. You've had to fight for every bit of it. And your chances... it wasn't always guaranteed that you'd succeed. It's not over. This business with your bowels is just more... same-old, same-old *hard*. I'm sorry it's not over yet. But it's worth it." He leaned closer, whispered in Rodney's ear, "It's going to be worth it."

Rodney took a couple of deep breaths. It was awful. But it wouldn't last forever. "This isn't worse than any of that stuff," he conceded, because he had to say something. "I mean, shit is better than blood."

"There's no panic to distract us now, though," Sheppard said thoughtfully. "We're not so scared that it doesn't matter. So we notice just how...."

"Shitty. How shitty things are."

"Yeah," Sheppard said softly.

Another breath. "So. What did you bring me?" Rodney held out his hands.

Sheppard smiled. "Ah. Wait." He turned and rummaged in his pack. "Close your eyes. Ta-da!"

Something rough and light in Rodney's hands. He opened his eyes. He was holding a very odd piece of salt. "This isn't Radek's report," Rodney pointed out reasonably.

"No, it's a statue." Sheppard was grinning.

"It's made of salt."

"Yeah! It's a Wraith. See?"

Rodney did see. The Wraith statue was about nine inches tall. And pink. With fair detail. Its hand was stretched out in the life-sucking position. Its mouth had a hint of a snarl. "How thoughtful," Rodney said. Then he laughed, which he regretted at once, because that hurt. "It's the ugliest gift I've ever gotten," he panted shallowly. "Possibly also the most tasteless. Wow."

"It cost me half a dozen MREs."

"Big spender. Where's my data?"

Sheppard sighed and produced a portable hard drive. "Fine. Be that way."

A nurse poked her head in the doorway. "Colonel? We're ready for you now."

Rodney fell asleep with the hard drive in one hand and the statue in the other.

He woke feeling triumphant. It was the little things that did you in, wasn't that what people said? The petty and the pointless? But even that, Rodney had survived. He'd overcome. A ghastly, gaping gut wound hadn't killed him. Terrible pain couldn't destroy him. Not even semi-public humiliation could break him. The next few weeks would be long, but he could do it. He would survive. Thrive, even. He was that good.

That afternoon, he fell in PT. It was a bad fall, and the nurse who grabbed for him *missed*. As Rodney crashed toward the floor, he thought, 'overconfident.' He'd moved too fast, tried a step too big, that was why his balance had gone. Overconfidence.

Then he hit and couldn't think anymore. The pain was incredible. He couldn't see or hear or think of anything but the terrible ripping feeling arcing through his belly. He couldn't breathe. His shoulders jerked frantically, trying to get a little air into his lungs. His hands clawed at the floor, searching for something.

It seemed to take forever before he felt Carson's hands.

He became aware of what was going on again as three field medics were hefting him onto the ancient scanning platform. He squirmed, not trusting the movement, afraid they would drop him.

"Easy, Rodney." Carson. Close. "Let me make sure you're all right."

"No. Let me go. Leave me alone." The padded platform felt alarmingly high and narrow. Although the room was usually comfortably warm, even with just the thin tunic on, Rodney felt cold.

Firm hands on his legs, straightening him out.

"Rodney, you need to hold still. I need to make sure you didn't tear anything."

"Ow. No."

"Rodney, it's either the scanner or watch you for the next few hours to see if your blood pressure tanks from internal bleeding. This is a much better deal. Hold still."

He tried to hold still. The bed was high and narrow. Normally the scan took less than four minutes, but every time Rodney moved, Carson had to start over. Rodney gripped the edge of the platform, squeezing hard, trying not to move.

A hand closed over his. Rodney shivered. John, because the hand was too large to belong to Elizabeth and nobody else would touch him this way. "It's all right." Sheppard's voice.

"Don't be an idiot. It's not all right."

"Yes, it is. Whatever's wrong, Carson can fix it."

"No, I can't--"

"Rodney, hold *still*. Irina, now would be good."

Rodney felt the cold alcohol swab, the pinch, the sharp prick of a needle. "No!" But his attempt to escape was thwarted by Sheppard, who pinned Rodney's shoulders to the table.

The sedative, whatever it was, didn't put Rodney completely out. It made things fuzzy and distant. He was suddenly--ridiculously--calm about the jeopardy he was in, but he wasn't ignorant of it. He clung to the awareness he had, desperately forming the most relevant thought and holding to it tightly: he couldn't do it again. Whatever happened, another surgery was out of the question. Rodney couldn't survive being cut open again. Not again. Not again. He couldn't face another surgery. He couldn't face starting PT again from the beginning. He had to tell Carson. Just as soon as he could get his voice to work, he had to explain. Carson would just have to think of something else. Anything else. Because Rodney couldn't go through surgery again.

He was lifted; again the sensation of movement, of height. It took long, confused moments to puzzle out why he was being moved, long moments before he realized if he was to go back into surgery, they would have to *take* him there. He had to tell Carson--had to, had to--that he couldn't go through that again. Couldn't be operated again. He couldn't face another surgery. He couldn't face starting PT again from the beginning. He had to tell Carson....

They had him on a gurney that moved. It seemed to be moving too fast. Or something. It was dizzying. Rodney wondered where he was going. He hoped not back into surgery. He'd been hurt, maybe. But whatever--whatever--he couldn't go through surgery again. He couldn't start PT over from the beginning. Not again. Not again.

They lifted him. Rodney wondered where he was going. Something bad had happened, he was pretty sure. Maybe something very bad.

Carson might have to cut him again. "No," he gasped thickly. No. No. Not again. He couldn't go through it all over again from the beginning.

'Not again. Not again,' ran through his mind until he noticed, thickly, that the wall in front of his eyes was the wall of his bed alcove.

Oh.

Rodney reached for the gauze covering the incision on his stomach. It felt exactly the same. He hadn't been taken back to surgery. He let his eyes drift closed and fell asleep.

He dreamed of falling and short women with wicked hand tools. He woke with a start, running his hands over his bandage, almost weeping with relief that he hadn't been operated on again.

After a while, one of the nurses poked her head into the alcove and asked, "Dr. McKay, how are you feeling?"

He managed a puny shrug. She offered him some water. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah," he said, although he wasn't. She disappeared again and about ten minutes later Teyla came in with a tray of food. Earth oatmeal (a tremendous luxury) and a protein shake.

"Oh, hell," Rodney grumbled. "Don't tell me I've so offended the nursing staff that they're refusing to feed me."

She smiled slightly. "I asked them to notify me when you were--" the hesitation was almost unnoticeable--"available," she said gently.

He wasn't hungry, which was strange, because he was always hungry. The oatmeal tasted wonderful, though. It was familiar. There were no surprises. It was perfectly wonderful. Rodney stuffed it in, not quickly, but persistently.

Teyla watched him closely.

"So," Rodney said, around a mouth full of oatmeal, "How was your trip?"

"Satisfactory, I think," she said. "Dr. Zelenka had just gotten the lights back on when we arrived--"

"He'd had, what? Three? Four? Days by then. What do you mean it took that long to restart the power?"

She frowned slightly. "Given the seriousness of the problem you detected, he wanted to take no chances."

"Oh. So, what did Elizabeth get us?"

"Unlimited access for as many as two dozen people."

Rodney's mouth dropped open. "You're kidding."

"Our access is unlimited, but we may remove nothing except data. If we can make the facility operational, we will renegotiate. Our hosts would also find the benefits of the factory welcome."

"Huh. Yeah. If we make them a ZedPM, they won't have to light the lights from wind power." That wasn't bad. "What are we paying for the unlimited access?"

"Ancient Technology Activation."

Rodney thought about that as he exchanged the oatmeal for the milkshake. "How are we giving them that?"

"Three volunteers will accept Dr. Beckett's retro virus every month," she said, picking her way among the alien concepts carefully. "Those who acquire the trait will join the team in the Ancient facility as apprentices."

"Huh. They'll be completely useless, of course."

"Dr. Weir attempted to explain that it would be many years before the trainees could manage the facility by themselves." She sighed. "I suspect they will soon discover this firsthand. Even your most basic physical sciences present a most surreal picture of the universe." Her eyes were teasing. Rodney smiled.

They were quiet while Rodney finished the milkshake.

"So, where's Colonel Sheppard?" Rodney asked at last.

She hesitated. "He is dealing with a disciplinary problem among the marines," she said.

Rodney lifted his watch off the shelf beside the bed. It was well into the evening shift already. He would have thought-- "A disciplinary problem? Doesn't he usually have people to deal with this? or something?"

Teyla studied the ceiling for a moment. "From what I understand, it is rather serious. And complex. It involves one of the Daedalus engineers who was assigned here on educational rotation."

"What happened?" Because, really? Sheppard had only been back in the city for a day. As nice as it was to see Teyla, he really would have thought he'd have seen John by now.

"I am not certain. I do not understand--but then, I may not have all the relevant information."

"So he's busy."

She sighed. "With something." She took a deep breath. "Whatever it is, Dr. Weir is very angry."

Rodney felt irritation rise. "So they sent you to babysit me?

"I was not sent. It is my pleasure to be here." Her steady gaze made him feel slightly embarrassed. "I have been very concerned."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

"I am not offended. You are not yourself."

Rodney smiled thinly. "I'm much ruder when I'm myself."

She left a few minutes after that, brushing their foreheads together on her way past the bed. Rodney considered powering up his computer and looking at the information Zelenka had sent back. In the end, he simply sat thinking until he fell asleep.

Carson came to see him the next morning. "I've got a wee conundrum," he announced, sitting down in the alcove's single chair.

"Okay..." Rodney said, not sure he wanted to know what conundrum involved him.

"I owe you an apology. However, I've seen how you react to apologies. It's a short route to completely short-circuiting your respect."

Rodney wondered if he were being insulted. He wondered how he could possibly defend himself.

"Be that as it may, I don't see any options that don't include apology. I handled it badly yesterday," Carson continued. "I should have seen the panic attack coming. We had time to--to settle you first. To make sure you were tracking and that you understood what was happening. It would only have taken a moment, and we didn't take it. I'm sorry, Rodney. Yesterday... shouldn't have happened."

"You're apologizing for my panic attack?" Rodney wasn't sure how to respond to this. It was unexpected, and a little weird.

"I have to do more than that. I have to offer you other options. I would understand, if you didn't feel comfortable working with me any longer. I can recommend Dr. Mendoza. Or Dr. Sato. Or we can send you home."

Rodney blinked. Home? It took almost a second to realize that Carson meant Earth.

Earth. The medical facility at the SGC. Or maybe that veteran's hospital outside of Denver where the SGC concealed so much of its medical hanky panky. He felt a stab of panic. "No. No, I don't--want to change anything."

Carson looked at him sadly. "Give it some thought."

"*No*, Carson. Just no. I know I'm really difficult. I know. I don't know how else to be. You can't wave a magic wand and make it all go away, and I guess it's kind of unreasonable to be angry about that."

Carson softened slightly. "Kind of."

"But I really appreciate the fact that I don't have to get up every two hours and check to make sure my medications won't interact. Because, seriously? Once with that was enough."

"That's the sort of thing you might discuss with Dr. Heitmeyer."

Rodney considered how much he ought to say. It was hard to decide. Probably, though, he owed Carson some truth. "There was this reception at Area 51 for some senate sub-committee. I'd been there about a year. Anyway, there were these cookies. They were made with dried orange peel, but I was thinking about naquada calculations and I wasn't paying attention until I'd eaten, oh, five of them."

Carson winced.

"Later on, in the infirmary, I heard the nurse on duty say to the orderly that everyone's life would have been much easier if I'd just died. It would cut down on the whining and the monumental waste of time. And all."

Carson was being very still. Rodney wondered if he'd taken the story as a kind of sideways accusation or insult. He wasn't sure what to say. "It was an Air Force base. Very macho. They weren't used to a crowd of goldbricking scientists."

"I wish I'd known. I wish you'd told me this story before," Carson said at last. "It's very difficult to keep a professional distance with you. To stay completely present when you're my patient. You're one of my best friends. In light of this, I really wonder how you managed to be friends with me at all."

Rodney stared at the floor. "You were hired on as a geneticist. One of the researchers I was supervising. Not as support staff. Then, by the time we were organizing the expedition team, I already knew you."

"Ah. Rodney, is it bad enough that I should be prescribing anti-anxiety drugs?"

"Been there. Done that. It's not worth it. It's kind of important I be able to work."

"They mess up your concentration?"

Rodney smiled. "No. My raw brilliance. I can concentrate fine, I just don't come up with anything. Carson, please, don't send me back. I know I can be difficult--"

"Enough," Carson said firmly. "We don't need to mention it again. I would like you to see Kate more often, though."

The reprieve was wonderful. "Sure," he said. "Fine."

Carson supervised morning PT himself.

At lunch, Sheppard showed up with peanut-butter sandwiches and more of the protein shake that was popping up at every meal.

Rodney bolted the first two bites of sandwich. The bread was mostly not-wheat, but it was fresh. And peanut butter--! "So. What's new?"

Sheppard was dismally studying his own lunch. "Not much. Harvest season is starting on the mainland. Nothing big, yet. A little plant that looks like cherry tomatoes that you dry and grind into flour."

"Pink bread?"

"No. Purple, actually."

Rodney chewed, studied him, said, "I hear you had some excitement last night?"

Sheppard shrugged placidly. "Nothing important." His calm look was completely unconvincing.

"Oh. Too bad. 'Cause I'm bored." No response. Except... was that anger shifting just below the surface? Anger at what? "Anyway, I'm glad it wasn't important. I'd hate to think you missed checking on me because something *important* came up."

Sheppard set his sandwich in his lap. "It turns out that sometime last week, Specialist Ross, one of the Daedalus engineers down here for an advanced orientation on Ancient technology, discovered Drs. Van Dorn and Morris together in the broken-parts depot."

"Really?" Rodney said. It turned out that after so many days of isolation, even gossip seemed rivetingly interesting. "Which Morris?"

"Patrick."

"Oh," Rodney said. "I actually didn't see that coming." Of course, Rodney didn't get to know most of his people. "Anyway, I don't see why this is your problem. Neither one of them is in your military. Neither one of them is even an American."

"Ross, horrified at the destination of their immortal souls, spent the last week trying to convert them and show them the error of their sinful ways." It should have been funny. It *was * funny, except for the look in Sheppard's eyes.

"Okay," Rodney said, worried. "I can't imagine he had much luck. My people tend to be pretty opinionated."

"Last night he cornered them at dinner. They'd been going out of their way to avoid him, so it was pretty late. He tried his spiel. They told him, no thank you please go away. There was yelling. On both sides."

Rodney winced.

"Ross took a swing at Van Dorn. Broke his nose." Rodney closed his eyes. Dieter Van Dorn was short and paunchy. He wouldn't stand a chance.

"Cadman promptly started to beat the crap out of Ross, answering for once and for all, who's badder? My Marines or Caldwell's Air Force."

"Oh, god."

"The fight was joined by another Daedalus specialist and one of my marines, both of them against Cadman. Before she was badly hurt, Loren and two of your people - Simpson and Parrish - hauled them all apart."

"Holy crap," Rodney whispered.

"I have to give Laura a black mark for fighting, when what I want to give her is a medal. I can give Ross and Smith back to Caldwell and tell him they're not welcome here. And I can discipline Waters. But what I'd *like * to do is court martial them. Well, no. What I'd like to do is shoot them."

Rodney blinked. "That's a little extreme. We're all under a lot of pressure here. It's not like they can just go off base to blow off steam."

He leaned close and whispered, "McKay, if it had been *you* discovered in the closet with the wrong person, it would have been you..." He stopped and slumped back into his chair.

Rodney thought about that. "So what? Your best friend's queer and all of a sudden you get all over protective and pissy over the bigot-thing?"

"Damn it, people die over this. Some of my people--I don't care that they were your people, they're my people, got harassed over the gay thing."

Rodney looked him over. "Uh huh. Anyway," he said, "I'm bi."

"That helps so much."

"Well, sort of bi. I don't actually want to *live* with a woman. I won't turn down sex, though. If she's hot."

Sheppard gaped at him for a moment, then buried his head in his hands, laughing helplessly.

"It's true," Rodney added.

"I don't doubt it." The laughter died away. "Shit, McKay. What am I going to do?"

Rodney looked again for the seething anger, didn't find it, relaxed just a little. "I assume Elizabeth has already sent the diversity memo?"

Sheppard nodded.

"You're going to have to talk to them, too. The Wraith are out there, trying to kill us. We don't need to help them along."

Sheppard frowned. "You seem awfully calm about this. I thought you'd be...."

"Upset? Most people are stupid. If I let that depress me, I'd never have a happy moment in my life. Say, are you just discovering this? It's a disappointment at first, but you learn to live with it. Yell at them when you need to (say, for example, when they are trying to kill you by wiring the iris controls backwards) and ignore the idiotic herd the rest of the time. Hey, are you going to eat that sandwich?"

Sheppard passed it over. "You busy this afternoon?" he asked.

"I have Heitmeyer after PT today. Apparently I'm a little tense."

"After dinner then. We'll check out a wheelchair and I'll take you out for some fresh air."

"Deal," Rodney said.

He looked forward to getting out of the infirmary all through afternoon PT, the sponge bath Carson gave him, and the appointment with Kate Heitmeyer. Making it all the more disappointing when he woke up and realized that he'd fallen asleep while eating dinner and was just waking up at (Rodney grabbed his watch) quarter past midnight, Atlantis Local Time.

The upside of getting so much sleep that night was that Rodney was up earlier than usual the next morning. He wouldn't normally consider this a bonus, but today he had a plan. He rang for the nurse. "Can I sit?" he asked, pointing at the chair beside the bed.

She paused to think for a moment, and Rodney added, "I've been walking for days. Almost walking. Surely, I can sit."

"Let me get a different chair. If you feel any stress in your stomach muscles--"

"Trust me. I'll complain." He wondered, though, how long he could go without complaining. If it didn't get too bad. He had to hurry this healing thing along. He'd been in the infirmary forever. Enough was enough.

She brought in one of the self-adjustable magic chairs. It scooted to support Rodney's lower back and softened under his rear. Rodney thought longingly of how far down the reverse-engineering list they were. Never mind the profits from the patent, there couldn't be enough of those chairs in any galaxy.

When breakfast showed up half an hour later, Sheppard was carrying it. "Hey, you're up! Good going." He dragged a wheeled table between them and set two covered plates on it.

"Thanks. For my next trick, I'm free-climbing the central spire." Rodney lifted the lid off the nearest plate. For a moment he was struck speechless. "Oh," he said. "My. I am Sam? Sam I am? Did you bring green eggs and ham?"

"Only the egg is green," Sheppard protested. "We're getting a case of them every month in exchange for antibiotics and aspirin, so you'll have to develop a taste for them. And the meat isn't green."

"It doesn't say the ham has to be green. Green *eggs* and ham." Rodney picked up the meat, which was Athosian bacon. It didn't come from anything resembling a pig, but it was salty and smoked and good. The eggs, though...."A case of these every month?"

Sheppard laughed. "The chicken is about the size of an ostrich. Each egg feeds about half a dozen people. High protein, low cholesterol. Eat."

Rodney took a bite of eggs. Despite being green, they tasted surprisingly like eggs. "Do you like them in a box? Do you like them with a fox?"

"Yes, very funny. Original, too. Nobody else on base has thought of that."

"So, I'm sorry about last night."

"Don't worry. We'll take a rain check."

"I'm free this afternoon," Rodney said hopefully. He didn't have another psych appointment until the next day.

"I'm not. Elizabeth says I'm in a foul mood. I'm spending the day on trips to the mainland, ferrying supplies going out and baskets of dried kali-kalri-kal-whatever. Cherry tomato wheat fruits." He straightened. "Say, you could come. On a trip or two. You could come along for the ride. Keep me company."

Rodney blinked. "Oh. No. I. I couldn't."

"Sure you could. You just have to sit there. It's perfectly safe. It would give you a change of scenery."

"I--" Rodney pictured the puddlejumper, the view of the ocean, the smell of the mainland. He wanted to go. He was scared to death. "Carson would never let me. I'm not allowed to go to the bathroom by myself. I can't even wear pants."

Sheppard considered Rodney's knees. "I have a pair of sweats; I could cut the elastic. We could rig some suspenders to hold them up. You'd be fine."

"I could never fit in your sweats!"

Sheppard glanced away.

"What?" Rodney snapped.

"You've lost a lot of weight," he said unhappily.

He had? "Oh. Really? Does it look good on me?"

Sheppard clinched his teeth. "Not particularly. But you'll fit in my pants, no problem. What do you say? It'll be fun."

"I. It sounds great. But I can't. I'm not allowed to sit all that long. And. I."

"It's all right, Rodney. Maybe next time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." He stood up and collected the plates. "I'll catch you later."

All day long, Rodney went back and forth between relief and regret. It was a long thirty minutes to the mainland. That was far away from Beckett and the infirmary. On the other hand, an hour or two alone in a jumper with Sheppard. Just talking. Maybe feeling normal. And Sheppard was willing to sacrifice a pair of pants to the cause. That was a kindness Rodney couldn't take for granted.

If anyone else had asked, Rodney wouldn't have felt more than a moment's regret for his limitation. It wasn't like he didn't have serious things like recovery on his mind. He couldn't have afforded to skip PT anyway. As much as he might wish it wasn't true, he really, really craved John's company. In ways that he shouldn't. In ways that wouldn't ever be returned--even though Sheppard really was generous with his company.

Rodney thought about flying all day.

Elizabeth showed up with dinner. "John's still making trips to the mainland," she said apologetically. "Apparently, they've had a bumper crop."

Beside the familiar Athosian stew was a fat wedge of deep purple bread. "This it?" he asked, pointing.

"Yes, and it's pretty good."

It was better than good. It was fantastic. The consistency was like cake, but it wasn't sweet. The flavor was strong and as complex as chocolate or cinnamon, but not anything like either one. "Wow," Rodney said. "We've got to send some seeds back to Earth."

She laughed. "You just want to see the botanists go ballistic." A sure way to get the Earth Science Department foaming at the mouth was to suggest sending seeds or bugs home through the gate.

Later that night, when Sheppard poked his head in, Rodney was still up watching 'My Favorite Martian' on video. "Hey," he said.

Rodney smiled. "Hey. Did you try the bread?"

"No, I had power bars for dinner. Why? Memorably bad?"

"Oh, yeah. Awful. Downright nasty, actually. I could take your share off your hands. If you wanted."

Sheppard, tired and a little wilted looking, laughed almost brightly. "That good?"

"Hey! I can be self-sacrificing!"

Something painful passed across Sheppard's face, but before Rodney had time to regret his words, he said, "McKay, you'll eat anything that won't actually kill you."

"If I spent my time rounding up food that's actually *good* I'd never get anything done."

"The point is, I'm not actually sure you'd know if the Kalritelpi is good or not."

The next afternoon Ronon came to visit. He was carrying a handful of tall grass. They were rainbow-colored, but horribly wilting and drooping. He also had a bowl of confections made of the purple flour.

"What?" Rodney asked, looking at the offerings his guest held out.

"I asked around. This is what they bring in your culture, isn't it? When someone's sick? Plant material and sweets."

Gingerly, Rodney took the wilting grass. "Well, yes," he said carefully. "Not usually both at once." He wasn't sure what Carson would say about the food offering, so he snatched one out of the bowl and ate it hurriedly. Sweetened, the nothing-like-dried-cherry-tomatoes made a lovely candy. "Not that I'm complaining."

Rolling his eyes, Ronon flopped into the guest chair. "Why *not* both at once? I didn't want to overlook anything."

Rodney grinned. "Both candy *and* flowers doesn't say 'get well soon' as much as it says, 'date me.' It's all right, though. I won't hold you to it."

"'Date me,'" Ronon repeated, frowning. "Oh. That. Right. Well, I can't be offering to, er, date you. You're sick. That would be stupid."

Rodney laughed without moving his stomach muscles. He didn't notice picking up this skill. "Right. It's all in the context. You'd date me otherwise."

"Sure. Why not?"

Rodney wondered if they were talking at all about the same thing. "You barely like me!"

Ronon looked him over. "You're on my team. You're reliable--in your way. And I bet you're good at it."

Rodney gaped. "And--what? That's all there is to it?"

"What else would there be? All this 'true love' business you Earthers and Athosians go on and on about?" He scowled formidably. "That's not love, that's insanity. It's not my fault if you're all nuts enough to try to let it run your lives. Mixing love with passion? I don't know how any of you have survived this long!"

"Oh. So you'd...." Rodney wasn't sure how to finish. 'Jump me?' 'Make like bunnies?' This was the most surreal conversation he'd had in this galaxy, and that included trying to convince the Genii that radiation shielding was a good idea.

Ronon shrugged. "Sure. Probably more than once."

Rodney gaped for a moment. "Why, thank you," he said finally. "That's very flattering."

Ronon shrugged, changed the subject. "So? Can I see your scar?"

"Ew. No." He wondered what life had been like on Sedata, and if Ronon was such a weirdo because of his home culture or because of all those years as a runner.

"When do they take the stitches out?"

"They don't. They just dissolve and fall out when I don't need them any more."

Ronon leaned forward. "So, they're... what? dissolving inside your body? Wow. That's really disgusting." He looked eagerly at Rodney's belly.

"Good heavens, are you *ten*?"

"What?" Ronon asked innocently. Rodney could never tell when he was teasing. He hugged Rodney and left.

The next day was a very good day. First of all, Rodney got cleared to go to the bathroom by himself. It was just around the corner and he clung nervously to the wall the whole way, but it was great to just *go* when he needed to go instead of having to call the nurse and put up with 'help.'

The second thing was that Radek came home. Finally. He came to Rodney right after the post-mission check-up, even before the post-mission shower. He walked right in on Rodney's morning PT, talking a mile a minute and waving a portable hard drive. He kissed Rodney on both cheeks and accused him of lazing around wasting time while Radek was inching closer to the Nobel Prize. Rodney replied that the competition wasn't of a quality that had him worried.

After the nurse chased Radek away, Rodney kept glancing at the data he'd left in the chair by the door. What had to be done to bring the facility up to operational. He was more excited than he'd been in days. Lunch was purple bread which he stuffed in while reading the report and dissecting the data. When Heitmeyer showed up for the appointment, Rodney couldn't think of anything to talk to her about.

That night, Elizabeth, Sheppard, and Radek came for dinner and they had a real meeting. It was wonderful. They talked about timetables and personnel allocation, and if Rodney fell asleep before they'd all left, well, at least he stayed awake through the important parts.

The next day, Carson put him on a treadmill. It was the most boring activity on the face of this or any planet, and Rodney said so. Loudly. Repeatedly, because nobody seemed to understand him, although he was speaking English.

For afternoon PT, Sheppard showed up and invited him for a walk. They went to the nearest balcony, which actually wasn't all that close since the infirmary was buried well inside the interior. Rodney clung to John's arm and tried not to waddle too badly. By the time he made it to the railing, Rodney was panting and drenched in sweat. He leaned forward, trying to take the weight on his arms, cursing silently at the ache in his gut.

Gently, gently, Sheppard rubbed his shoulders. It felt lovely. Which was bad, because while there were days when Rodney felt solid in himself and could handle how powerful it was to have John Sheppard standing so close, this was not one of them. With these solid hands on his body it was intimately obvious that Rodney would never get what he really wanted.

"Just breathe, all right? Take your time. I can call for a chair if you need one. It's going to be all right."

Rodney thought, fleetingly, of turning around and clinging on and weeping into Sheppard's neck. Instead he gulped air and held on to the railing.

The wind was warm, but as damp as Rodney was he soon started to shiver. "Let's head back inside," Sheppard suggested.

"Wait," Rodney said. It had been weeks since he'd seen the sunlight glittering on the water, since he'd smelled strong, sweet salt in the air, since he'd seen clouds.

"You're cold. Come on."

"I'm not three! I may not be good for anything--" Rodney stopped, looked away, wished he were someone else.

A few minutes later he turned and started the long walk back. That night he slept through dinner.

A couple of days later the walk to the balcony was no big deal at all. Rodney still couldn't walk and talk at the same time, but at least he didn't have to cling frantically to whatever nurse or friend was escorting him. Even better, he was finally able to trade in the tunic and bathrobe for a pair of loose pants.

Sheppard was off-world and Elizabeth was busy mediating a personnel problem, but Radek took Rodney for dinner in the commissary to celebrate. Using a transporter, it was a much shorter trip than to the balcony. Radek fussed and watched Rodney like a bomb that was counting down. He kept asking if Rodney felt all right. He didn't let Rodney carry his own tray.

Rodney ignored the silly kindness as white noise and pointed to meat and tubers and a thick pudding in the now-familiar purple. When they sat down to eat, he learned why Radek was falling all over himself to be helpful. "I didn't want your job *before* you had your job. Now? After you, no normal human can do it."

"Why thank you. That's very generous of you to admit."

Radek rolled his eyes. "You are such a heartless bastard. You have everyone terrorized. They are used to yelling and shame. Compared to you I am a big teddy bear, yes? Or so everyone thinks. Me, they assume is 'approachable.' Me, they fight with. Me, they try to wear down. Me, they beg and badger. It is an endless argument. I am nearly homicidal!"

Rodney snorted around a mouth full of something sort of like mashed potatoes.

"'Please, just a few more minutes with the spectrograph.' 'I need an extra trip off-world to gather more data.' 'Peterson is stealing my chocolate.' It is a nightmare. Absolutely."

Rodney smothered a smug little grin. "Really? Because they never bother me with this kind of petty crap!"

"Of course not! You are the devil incarnate. You do not ask the devil to use his ATA gene to turn on a toaster."

"We found a toaster?"

"No, it was small device used to repair clothing. That is not the point."

"You could try to be more ruthless."

"Oh, yes. Thank you. I have not thought of that." Radek rolled his eyes. "I can be a terrifying engineer, if I have to. I am hopeless as an administrator. At least with a group of rabid animals *you* have been terrorizing for several years. Do you want more pudding?"

"Yes. Are they bringing out a fresh batch of cookies?"

Radek brought him up to date on everyone's projects, then lowered his voice slightly and brought him up to date on the latest gossip. Some of it Rodney had heard before from visitors while Radek was gone, but Rodney just listened anyway. When Radek finally collected the plates and suggested they call it a night, Rodney didn't really want to head back to the infirmary. Radek, for all that he claimed to be a push-over, was completely unbending.

Rodney woke in the middle of the night shift with horrible stomach cramps. The first wave brought him wide awake and yelling. The second wave hit just as the nurse turned the light on. It hurt even worse than the first, and Rodney was half-convinced he was dying.

By the third wave, he was absolutely positive that he was not about to die, but rather physically explode. Dr. Ciampi was on duty. When Rodney couldn't answer her questions, she called for sedation and Beckett. The shot arrived first, and Rodney was mumbling a description of his pain when Carson came in at a dead run and only half dressed.

There was pressing on his belly which hurt. This was followed by listening to the belly with a stethoscope, which was weird, although Carson had done it a couple of times before. They asked repetitive questions about what Rodney had eaten and when.

There was a trip through the scanner.

There was bed and an IV.

Sometime around four the next morning, Rodney had a difficult bowel movement. After that, they turned the lights back down and finally let him sleep.

Elizabeth was sitting beside the bed when he woke up.

Rodney froze in the act of stretching. "Oh, my god. Is this a death watch?"

"What?" she asked, looking around in confusion.

"I'm dying?"

"No, of course not. You had a minor bowel obstruction."

Rodney thought back, trying to piece together a coherent picture of the long, miserable night. "That's it?"

"Apparently Kalritelpi is somewhat... binding. Which nobody was looking for, since it has a lot of fiber. We've been putting it in everything. Most people barely noticed, but your insides," she paused, searching for something that wasn't too indelicate, "weren't up to the challenge."

Rodney had gone to town on red wheat-substitute at dinner. He'd been handling volume just fine, so he hadn't given any thought to content. "Carson never said--"

"Nobody noticed anything serious. As a minor problem, it's not something people discuss casually."

"It's a health hazard!"

Elizabeth sighed. "No, we just shouldn't serve it more than once a day."

Rodney sighed, checked the time. It was almost local noon. "Where's Carson?" he asked.

She winced and Rodney felt his stomach sink. "He's stepped out for lunch? Or off doing research?"

"There was some trouble off-world. Carson has gone to help clean up." She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"John?"

"We don't know. There was a landslide. Colonel Sheppard and Ronon were cut off. Teyla's being brought back to the gate with a concussion. She should be through the gate in about ten minutes."

Rodney squeezed his eyes shut. "You're kidding. You are fucking kidding--" he managed at last. "Were you planning to mention this sometime today?" He tossed off the blanket and shoved his feet off the side of the bed.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to get my goddamn team."

She sighed. "Rodney. I'm not even sure you could even make it to the gateroom."

No, he probably couldn't. Rodney scrubbed at his face. His eyes were gritty from the sedation and bad sleep. His body felt wrong. He remembered, dimly, that Carson had forbidden him to lift anything heavier than two kilograms.

There was nothing he could do.

"Rodney--"

"What the hell are you doing here? You should be upstairs, making decisions--"

She tapped her headset. "I hear everything. I'm on it."

Rodney closed his eyes. It didn't prevent a pair of hot tears from leaking out. "I can't do this," he whispered. "Every time it feels like I'm getting anywhere at all, it all goes to hell... and I can't do it at all without him. I can't."

Elizabeth shifted to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. She put an arm around his shoulders. "We have absolutely no evidence that anything terrible has happened--"

"Well, are they answering their damn radios?"

"No. But--"

"I'd say that's pretty good evidence." He pushed her away.

"We have our best people out there looking--"

"Your best people are *missing*."

She paused for a moment, listening. "They're on their way in with Teyla. I don't have time to babysit you over this. Pull it together. Now. Because you are not freaking out when she gets here."

"Take me with you," Rodney whispered. "I'll go in a chair. I'll be quiet. Please, Elizabeth."

"We'll see," Elizabeth said. She patted his shoulder and was gone.

Rodney pulled on his bathrobe and planted himself in a corner of the exam area. They brought Teyla in on a gurney, but she was awake and arguing with Dr. Mendoza.

Her uniform jacket was gone, and her arms were covered in flaking sheets of dried blood. Rodney swayed, horrified. Her hair was matted. Her face was swollen and covered with long, shallow scratches. Rodney couldn't tear his eyes away. He couldn't even remember the last time Teyla had been hurt. She was graceful. She could defend herself. She was tough. There was no reason for her to look like *this*.

She was yelling, though. That was a good sign. "My injuries are not serious! Your procedures are flawed and wasteful! Let go of me, now."

Dr. Mendoza murmured something.

"I do not care. Let me go."

Without meaning to, Rodney closed the distance between them. "Will you quit with the macho bullshit and let the doctor look at you?" She turned her angry eyes to him, and Rodney quickly changed tactics. "You're here, all right? You've already lost. Give up and get it over with."

She shut her mouth, the anger evaporating into something else. "I am so sorry," she whispered. "I do not know where they are."

"It's not your fault, and there's nothing you can do. So just--" Rodney waved his arm at the doctor.

She shook her head, winced in pain. "We were not together. I was with Dr. Zhaung collecting samples when the hillside came down. I do not know what happened to them."

Rodney felt a wonderful anger rise up inside him. "Zhaung the geologist? You got caught in a landslide with one of my geologists?"

"There was no indication of danger before the ground began to move."

The doctor took advantage of the distraction to spirit Teyla away behind one of the privacy screens. Rodney attempted to pace. He wasn't very good at it, and his restless movement soon devolved into shifting back and forth on tired legs.

God, John.

Geology samples? They'd sent John Sheppard out to pick up rocks? Loren always got the geologists.

Rodney crept back to his alcove and retrieved the pants he'd been so proud of the night before. No shoes, just infirmary grippy slip-ons; they weren't sturdy, but he wouldn't have to bend over to put them on. No weapon. No radio. His laptop weighed less than a kilogram, but Rodney wasn't sure he could carry even that very far.

He took a deep breath and headed out toward the door.

Slowly--and casually, because who wanted to waste time answering questions--Rodney passed through the main infirmary. He could still hear Teyla complaining behind her screen. She was all right, probably.

The hall seemed very long, but Rodney knew the transporter was right around the corner. He was careful not to hurry too much. With no stomach muscles to speak of yet, there was a lot of strain on his lower back. He'd managed so far to keep from giving himself anything worse than a low ache. If he threw his back out, he'd be completely immobile and--if possible--even more completely useless than he was now.

He'd been down this hall several times recently. It was much more boring when he had nobody to talk to during the trip. Bland, pleasant walls. Bland, pleasant ceiling.

The destination choice was hard. The most central transporter in operations had been disabled to 'outgoing only' for security reasons. If he came in on the lower level of the command suite, it was a very short walk to the gateroom. But he would have to climb all those stairs. If he came up on a level with Elizabeth's office, the walk was longer, but no stairs.

It wasn't much of a choice at all. Rodney couldn't even pretend to himself that stairs were an option. He touched the destination.

It just took so damn long. A pair of marines passed him in the hall. They were swift and focused and didn't look back. Rodney, on the other hand, was moving very slowly, and placing his feet didn't take so much of his brain that there wasn't plenty of thought left over for all the horrible ways people could die in a landslide.

At long last he reached the control room. Rodney leaned against the wall just inside the doorway and sighed. His stomach ached and so did his back. He also felt a little light-headed, but that was probably because he hadn't eaten in about eighteen hours, not because he'd overdone it and was bleeding internally.

Elizabeth caught sight of him and sighed, silently pointing toward an empty chair at the internal communications station. Rodney sat.

It seemed like a very long wait. The room seemed cold. The chair was very hard. Sometimes the gate engaged; one of the search parties making a check-in. Usually, there was just a gnawing misery as the moments slipped away.

Another incoming wormhole. Rodney knotted his fingers together and tried not to get his hopes up. Loren's voice echoed from the speakers. "*Base, this is jumper three. Lieutenant Havilland's crew just found our people alive and well and stuck in some kind of crevasse. All personnel present and accounted for. They're digging them out now.*"

A short, harsh silence. A short, loud cheer. Rodney began to shake.

"*They're going to need a couple more hours. In the meantime, I'm going to pick up the other teams and bring them in to help.*"

"Is there anything you need?" Elizabeth asked. Rodney stopped listening. He ran the words, 'alive and well' over and over in his mind. Alive. And well.

At some point, Elizabeth set a glass of green juice on the console in front of Rodney. Rodney tried a dirty look that just came out sullen. "No eating over my equipment."

"I'd rather you didn't pass out. Make that gone or I'll call for a medic to come get you."

Rodney drank, even though he recognized that packing it in was a sensible suggestion. John was fine. Alive and well. There was nothing Rodney could do. He wasn't great with digging, anyway. Right? Sitting here he was completely useless.

Trapped in a crevasse. A dark, small place covered with rocks and mud. Not that that would bother Sheppard nearly as much as it would have bothered Rodney. And Ronon--small, dark places probably didn't scare him more than anything else did. They were fine. Rodney should go back downstairs to the infirmary and do the afternoon PT. Of course, getting back there would probably count as half of his session.

Rodney stared down at the console beside him, not really seeing the controls themselves, just the shapes and colors they made.

The stargate whooshed open. Rodney didn't breathe until the guy at operations announced that it was Major Loren's IDC. Elizabeth reached over herself to drop the shield.

One after another, three puddlejumpers floated through the gate and rose--like hot-air balloons, like clouds, like bubbles rising through water--through the hatch in the ceiling to the jumper bay above. A lovely sight.

Elizabeth was already running for the stairs. Rodney sighed. If he really hurried, he might make it to the infirmary before, say, next week.

Elizabeth met him as he exited the transporter on the medical level. She was grinning, which was a great sign, and she hugged him, which was weird. "They're fine, they're fine," she whispered. "They had to climb and dig to punch a signal through, and when they got an opening they could hear Edwards and Cadman calling for them. It's all right."

Rodney swayed.

Elizabeth pushed him into the wall. "Breathe," she said. "I'll call for a chair." She reached for her ear piece.

"No. I'm fine," Rodney muttered.

"Are you sure?"

Rodney didn't dignify that with an answer. Resolutely, he headed toward the corner. Around the corner. Down the hall. The infirmary door was close. Rodney had done this before.

He had about three meters to go when Colonel Sheppard himself came charging out the door.

Rodney stumbled to a halt and gaped.

Except for his hands and pale rings around his eyes, Sheppard was a uniform color of dark grey. His hair was flat to his head, plastered down even over his ears. He left a trail behind him, not muddy footprints, but tiny chunks of gunk that fell off now and then and splatted damply on the floor.

Rodney stared, his heart pounding. Sheppard turned in his tracks, stomping back to the doors which snapped open so hard they thumped into their sockets. "Well, he didn't go far and he's not moving very fast, so I want to know HOW THE HELL YOU LOST HIM IN THE FIRST PLACE."

Carson, only about half covered in dark grey sludge scooted past Sheppard. He slumped against the wall as he caught sight of Rodney. "Utter bastards. Worse than everyone else put together. You'll be the death of me."

Rodney blinked and started lumbering forward again.

Sheppard collected himself, stepped aside while mentally holding the door for him. "PT walk?" he asked, trying for casual.

Rodney closed his eyes, opened them again because he needed to steer. Sheppard was still holding the door. It was taking forever to get there. "I've been to the control room."

"I probably should have mentioned that," Elizabeth said. Rodney wasn't looking at her, but he could hear the wince in her voice.

As Rodney passed him, Sheppard leaned over and whispered, "You look like shit, McKay."

Slowly, Rodney turned his head and whispered back, "Probably so. But I know I don't stink."

They put Sheppard and Ronon through a hazmat wash to clear away the stubborn mud, then they were put through the usual post-mission check-up. Both were cleared to go.

Teyla was ordered to spend the night. She tried to appeal to Carson for a reprieve, but he was adamant. There was an upside there: on Atlantis you didn't have to wake a concussion patient up every hour to make sure they hadn't gone into a coma. Monitors could watch them without being a source of regular torment. With no need for a nurse to disturb her (and everyone in the room with her) all night, she could have a roommate. They slid an extra bed into Rodney's alcove: slumber party.

Someone had left Rodney's lunch on the little mobile table beside the bed. He was back to tubers (cold and coagulated) and protein shake (warm and runny). Rodney shrugged, sat down, and ate mechanically. When about half the food was gone, Rodney lost interest. He shoved the pale paste around with the fork, thinking that there ought to be a better way to keep track of personnel off-planet.

"Is the food not to your liking?" Teyla's question caught him by surprise. Somehow, he seemed to have forgotten that she was sitting less than two meters away. He looked up. She was sitting upright in her bed, her arms folded across her chest and a scowl on her face. She was clearly pissed, but it was a polite and general anger, nothing directed toward Rodney.

"It's fine. Anyway, I don't think they'll let me have anything else." Not after last night. It might be days before he had his next normal meal.

"You seem very tired," she said.

Rodney looked at the bed. It seemed very far away. He shook his head.

She slipped out onto the floor, holding out a hand. For the first time, Rodney got a good look. Her arm was covered with thin, shallow scratches. They were outlined in orangish betadine stains. "What happened?" Rodney whispered, stunned by the sheer number of tiny injuries.

She rolled her eyes. "The fall was painful, but not serious. The plants growing on the hillside were very sharp."

"Ow," Rodney muttered.

"The injuries itched more than they hurt, and the spray Dr. Beckett applied in the field took care of that. Dr. McKay, let me help you to bed. I am very strong. I am part Wraith." Angry, angry. The statement was flat and inflectionless, but her eyes were angry.

"Teyla, the doctors mean well."

"Do not be kind," she snapped. "It does not suit you."

It took a long second to process what she'd said. As the words sunk in, they stung.

Teyla's eyes widened, horror showing plainly. "I did not mean that."

"Teyla--" he wanted to be supportive. He had no idea how. He suspected that even if he was good at being supportive, Teyla would be beyond him.

She was still holding out her hand. Rodney took it and let her help him up. It was just two steps, but without Teyla's wiry arm around his waist, he couldn't have made it. She eased him onto the mattress, lifted his legs, removed the slippers. Rodney was asleep before she had pulled the sheet over him.

When he woke again the lights were dimmed. He could see Teyla curled into a small, angular ball sleeping soundly in the next bed. Rodney watched her for a while, oddly comforted by a team member so close and so peaceful.

God, what had happened to his brain? Since when could he just sit somewhere and watch somebody else sleep with no thought at all? Maybe he had lost it, whatever 'it' was. There was no question that he had been brilliant once, that he had been *quick*, that he'd been able to multitask.

He wasn't even sure he could remember what that felt like tonight.

Someone had left dinner within reach. Another of the damn protein shakes. Damn. It had been a point of pride that Rodney could eat anything that would provide sustenance and not be distracted by how low the quality might be. Good food was nice. Simple food was better. Really, in the end, all that mattered was that it was *there*. In Antarctica, he'd eaten reconstituted everything. In Russia, it had been a lot of cabbage and potatoes. American military bases--he hadn't even bothered to notice the food there. You had to eat to work. You ate, you worked. The food on campus during graduate school: that had been truly nasty. But who cared? Neither of Rodney's parents had been good cooks. Most dinners at home had been abysmal. Rodney had learned not to notice. More common were the nights he'd been sent to bed without supper. According to his parents, he'd been a stubborn, obnoxious kid. Probably they were right, but going to bed with no dinner had given him headaches. Sometimes Jeanie had managed to sneak him something, but the nights he'd lain awake nauseated from hypoglycemia had taught him the absolute importance of eating *something*.

He had to drink the damn protein shake. He couldn't tell himself it had gone off; there was no actual dairy in it. Even cold, it didn't taste like a milkshake. Tepid, it was the same sustenance. Rodney wiggled to the edge of the bed, took the tumbler, sucked down three swallows. Enough food, that was what mattered. Who cared if it was runny and lumpy and tasted like old socks and soy powder? It didn't matter. He had enough.

It was really, really awful.

Wasn't this a recipe for disaster? Alone in the middle of the night feeling sorry for himself? Hell.

He put down the tumbler and lay back down, trying to go back to sleep. It took a long time, and finally, the only thing that worked was the even sound of Teyla's breathing.

After the morning bedcheck from the duty nurse, Colonel Sheppard showed up with three breakfasts instead of his regular two. Oatmeal all 'round and completely useless caffeine-free Athosian tea.

Teyla slipped out of bed, headed for the bathroom. Rodney realized now would be a good time to have a word with Sheppard about her. He didn't want to. He wasn't even sure what word to have. But it was *Teyla*. Teammates were less convenient than underlings. Rodney motioned Sheppard closer and whispered: "I'm kind of worried about her. Yesterday she wasn't acting like herself. You probably want to, you know, keep an eye on her. Or something."

Sheppard shifted all the way onto the bed, sitting so close that his hip brushed Rodney's knee. "I had a chance to talk to her last night. After dinner." He paused. "You were asleep. She told me you weren't acting like yourself, and I should probably keep an eye on you."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "I spent most of yesterday wondering if you all had died. It made me a little tense."

Sheppard frowned. "You still look like hell," he said seriously.

This was the point where Rodney should snap something and defend himself. He was supposed to be unconcerned. Maybe not cool and macho, but at least not fragile and visibly at a loss. Rodney had nothing. Failing charm, failing sarcasm, failing deflecting snipe, he settled for truth: "I was sick night before last. I'm over it now. There's nothing to worry about."

"What happened?" Sheppard asked.

"Nothing."

Sheppard waited.

"I had a small bowel problem, all right? A little intestinal blockage."

Sheppard looked horrified. "Twisted?" he gasped. Rodney wondered what kind of research he'd been doing.

Rodney gritted his teeth and muttered, "No. Constipated. It turns out that red bread eaten in large quantities is binding. Like cheese."

"Oh."

"So. Laugh if you want."

Sheppard didn't look amused.

"Look, I do remember there was a time when you teased me and thought I could take it. I'm not so damn fragile--" But he was, and he knew it.

He was saved from having to follow that thought too far by Teyla's return. Sheppard passed out the plates and urged them to dig in. "So tell me about your smelly adventure," Rodney said. It seemed like a safe topic.

"Well, the first part of the landslide was large rocks. We saw it coming with, oh, ten or fifteen seconds lead time. We ducked into a crevasse and the large boulders blocked off most of the opening, so when the smaller rocks and mud came down we sort of had a roof."

Rodney shuddered. He supposed they'd been very lucky--as well as very smart and very fast--but, oh, that sounded awful.

"The mud still came in through the cracks. It filled up the crevasse to our ankles before it began to settle. We had to wait until things had settled for a while and gotten a lot less squishy before trying to dig out."

"Yuck."

"Well, it wasn't so bad. We had MRE's and water. The radios didn't work because of all the ore in the rock--iron ore, copper ore, a little naquada (which is what we were looking for)--but it took us until we couldn't raise Atlantis at first check-in to realize that we couldn't communicate out."

"And all that mud."

"It wasn't very cold." Sheppard shrugged. "Join the Air Force, see other planets, come home covered in them."

Rodney tried to laugh, since it was a joke and all.

They released Teyla later that morning. Rodney got back to his routine. PT. Lunch. Rest. PT. Visit from Heitmeyer (every other day it was a bath instead, but that wasn't today). Fiddle dimly with notes on the nanite factory. Dinner. Watch TV on the laptop. The day went pretty much as expected. Sometimes there was sleeping. Nothing was particularly horrible.

The next day was pretty much the same, except for sponge bath replaced psychologist. Carson was still doing the bathing himself. He didn't take advantage of the protracted, intimate contact to berate Rodney for going AWOL. Rodney had kind of thought he would, but Carson probably understood. Rodney's team had been missing. On Atlantis, there was no family to go home to every night. Only each other. Anyway, that would have been Rodney's defense, if he'd needed to defend himself. But Carson never mentioned it.

The day after that, morning PT was replaced by two hours sitting under some kind of ray emitter. The pants were tugged down, the tunic hiked up. He could see a warm blue light playing over the uneven scar, but Rodney was fairly sure that the visible spectrum was just for targeting.

The procedure was overseen by Carson, Dr. Ciampi, and one of Rodney's own engineers, Karedis? Kerides? Something Greek, anyway. He supposed he ought to be interested in how it worked, from a mechanical perspective if not because it was being used on *him*, but....whatever. He might even have signed off on this project at some point. Whatever it was.

Okay, yeah, and maybe it was bothering him a little, because after the first half hour or so, he said, "So, we've tested this, right?"

Carson's eyes narrowed, as though Rodney had said something odd. Or said the right thing at the wrong time. "Aye. It is operating according to spec. Dr. Kalamedes did the translation of the instruction manual himself. Dr. Ciampi has been doing rodent tests for the last year."

"Mickey survived, I take it," Rodney said.

Carson leaned closer, said softly. "Rodney, I emailed you the summaries last week."

He sighed. "It's in my 'to do' folder then."

"Oh."

He felt a warmth in his belly. Also in his chest and his right ear, which was odd. Maybe. Or not. There wasn't any point in trying to take charge. Nothing Rodney did seemed to make much difference anyway.

When the procedure was finished, Carson prodded and cajoled until Rodney gave in and accompanied him to the commissary for a very early lunch. He wasn't as stiff as you'd expect from missing PT, and by the time they exited the transporter, Rodney was moving faster than he'd moved yet. Although he still kept a hand on Carson's arm just in case something went wrong.

After the last disaster with picking his own food, Rodney stuck to very small portions of Athosian stew and (although Carson assured him it was fine and he could have two if he was hungry) ground lizard-patty.

The next day he was back in the scanner. The results pleased Carson enough that Rodney was cleared to shower by himself as long as he was carrying a medical monitor. Rodney eased off the table and went to shower *right then*. It took for-freaking-ever, but that was mostly because he was having a wonderful time standing in the warm water and not because it still hurt to bend over.

It still did hurt. It hurt to bend forward, and in every other direction. But the pain wasn't so sharp it took his breath away. The wound was closed, the scar tidy and pink. The bruises on his arms from the IVs were faded to yellow. Rodney supposed he'd been trying--apparently with pretty good success--to notice his body as little as possible. He had gotten a lot better while he hadn't been looking.

He'd also gotten thinner. The body the water was sluicing down was smaller than he'd realized. Sheppard was right. It didn't look good on him. He'd lost fat, but muscle, too. Even with his skin flushed from the warm water, his color wasn't good.

Sighing, Rodney turned the water off.

Colonel Sheppard was waiting in Rodney's alcove when he got back. He quickly vacated the chair and got out of Rodney's way so he could sit. Sheppard had a bundle in his arms, and as soon as Rodney was comfortable, he held it out.

A uniform. Absently, Rodney checked the tag. His own. Shoes and socks, and clean underwear. Huh. "Thanks," he said. "Hey. All dressed up and no place to go."

Sheppard smiled slowly. "The Athosians are having their Harvest Festival. It starts tomorrow."

Rodney winced. "So it's not enough we have to go the tedious and weird harvest festivals of people we don't know. The Athosians torment us with it, too. How fortunate that I'm--" Slow on the uptake, Rodney looked down at the uniform in his lap. "You want me to go."

"I'll let you drive." He was grinning.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah. That's an incentive."

"Right. You really, really *hate* flying the space ship. Suuure."

Rodney sighed. "I can't go."

"Carson's coming. Irina and half the other nurses are coming. You sit in the jumper. You sit in a chair at the banquet. There's a kind of sporting event; you can sit and watch."

Rodney lowered his eyes.

"I'll sneak in an MRE," Sheppard coaxed. "In case the food is too weird. You'll have fun. I'll bring you home if you get tired."

Rodney cast about for another excuse. He'd run out, and Sheppard was watching him patiently. He was certain and unshakable. Rodney wasn't going to win. "All right. If Carson says yes."

"He's already said yes. We leave tomorrow right after lunch."

PT the next day was cut short, and Carson sent Rodney off to shower, dress, and rest before lunch. As soon as lunch was over, Sheppard appeared with a wheelchair.

"Walking now," Rodney said grumpily.

"The hanger's huge. You'll have a better time if you don't start out exhausted." It was easier to give in than to argue, and there was no *point* in arguing; Rodney couldn't possibly keep up resistance until Sheppard wore down and gave up. There was no getting out of this.

Anyway. He could have made it to the jumper. It would have been a very long trip, though.

At the berth, Sheppard helped Rodney up and set the chair aside. "Come on," he whispered in Rodney's ear. "Quit being mister grumpy. I'll let you drive."

Rodney shot a dirty look. "You know, that's *never* funny."

"What funny?" Then, defensively, "I taught you to fly." His lithe body was suddenly in Rodney's way, steering him toward the left-hand seat.

"No--" Rodney started.

"You'll be fine. Just take her up, I won't make you fly the whole way."

Rodney found himself sitting in the pilot's seat. On the best days, this made him a little sweaty. Instead of taking the other seat, Sheppard stood just behind him, a strong hand on Rodney's shoulder. "You'll be fine. This is jumper 7. She likes you."

There was something in his voice. Something satisfied and happy. It occurred to him then that this wasn't the usual tease about Rodney's flying. This was a present. If Sheppard had spent the better part of a month in the infirmary, *this* was what he'd be longing for. After just a few days, he'd be aching to sit in this seat again. He couldn't really believe that Rodney hadn't missed it at all. This was an attempt to help. Sheppard thought it would help a lot.

Pointlessly, stupidly, Rodney's eyes burned. He started to look over his shoulder, felt the tension as his body refused to twist as much as he wanted, and turned the chair to look.

Behind them, the jumper began to fill up with passengers. The celebration lasted two days. Most of Atlantis would spend at least a shift on the mainland, celebrating.

Rodney touched the communicator at his ear. "Flight, this is jumper 7. We're in pre-flight." He brought up the power, connected to the central system. "Are you reading telemetry?"

"*Jumper 7, this is flight. Our board is green. Hold, please, for jumper 4.*"

Rodney took a deep breath. He checked the passengers again. When the last person was aboard, he closed the rear door.

So far he was remembering how everything worked.

He brought up the sensor display, watched another jumper take off and pass through the opening above them.

Sheppard was absently rubbing Rodney's arm.

"*Jumper 7, this is flight. The doors are open. You are free to go at your discretion."

"Woohoo," Rodney muttered, and brought the atmospheric engines off stand-by.

Lift-off and exit was a preprogrammed autopilot maneuver.

The sky was cloudless, and although the view screen automatically cut the glare, the city still sparkled as though it were encrusted with jewels. As the view cleared the surrounding towers, the sea was laid out like a shining, silver sheet. Rodney's breath caught. The emotion that choked him was as much astonishment as awe, and he realized that somehow he had partly given up on ever being able to see this again.

He was going to live, and oh, hey, surprise! because he'd been half gutted and operated on by a witch doctor in a cavern far from home. But no, he wasn't going to die, didn't expect *that* did you? Not only was he going to live, he was going to recover. He would get *better* and yeah, there'd be this huge honking scar, but he probably wouldn't have to spend the rest of his life sweating over the possibility of a little indigestion killing him.

The horizon was a dark blue smudge. Rodney was feeling something like adrenalin now. Not the ugly, panic, desperate kind. The other kind. A flush over his skin. A stirring of possibility. Had he actually forgotten?
He realized they were hovering, the top of the automatic ascent having been reached. John had both hands on his shoulder now, but he didn't say anything, didn't nudge Rodney to hurry. Well. Maybe he understood. Not what Rodney was thinking, but that a moment like this was special.

Rodney brought up the navigation system. And how easy was that? The right, querying thought, the right gesture, and pop, there was a map of the current planet, with position checked by position of the sun and the local magnetic field. Rodney located the settlement (helpfully marked in mauve on the map), oriented the shuttle to the right direction, and set a speed. Belatedly, he also flattened the altitude setting. The higher you were, the longer you had to correct before you hit. By 'correct,' Rodney meant, 'scream and get out of the way so that the real pilot could save them.'

The sky was blue and perfect. The sea shot beneath them in a glittering sheet. Rodney wished he could smell the outside air, and amazingly the air intakes opened and the life-support recyclers shut down.

At atmospheric speeds, it took more than half an hour to make it to the mainland. Rodney kept the controls for ten minutes or so, then asked to be relieved. Rodney moved over and Sheppard took his seat. In the cabin to the rear, people had started singing obscure drinking songs, but the chair was comfy, and Rodney slept for most of the rest of the trip.

He didn't wake until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sheppard was good enough a pilot that you never felt the deceleration, the descent, the touchdown, or the transition from inertial dampeners to regular gravity. When Rodney tried a landing it felt like cartoon gravity--a wave of dropping that stretched up from the feet to the head that always put him in mind of Bugs Bunny going off a cliff. He looked out the front, at the meadow the Athosians had set aside for landings. The grass was green and, where it wasn't trampled, tall. Feeling unexpectedly happy, Rodney got up and followed the press of people disembarking.

It was a very short walk through the trees to the village. Carson met them as they stepped down and hovered unsubtly on Rodney's other side. "I wondered where you were," Rodney said.

"I got drafted for flight crew on jumper 4. Colonel Sheppard didn't want all the good pilots gone from the city at once."

"I drafted you because you needed the practice and because you were coming anyway, not because you weren't good enough to leave behind."

Carson rolled his eyes. "You should have seen him in the meeting yesterday; a fourth of the city here at a time, and all the senior staff gone at once besides."

Sheppard gave a long-suffering sigh. "It is vitally important to maintain good relations with the Athosians. Major Loren and Dr. Zelenka can handle things at home for an afternoon. I'm not the least bit worried." He wasn't convincing.

The next jumper had landed and the passengers were coming up behind, moving fast. Rodney and the others stepped out of the way to let them by. The short walk was taking forever, but Sheppard and Carson didn't seem to mind the leisurely pace. The path was fairly smooth and the ground was softer on his feet than the corridors of Atlantis. The air smelled fresh.

"Where is Elizabeth?" Rodney asked, as they started forward again.

"She had to be here first thing this morning for the dawn ceremony. Actually, we're in your debt. Even Teyla admits the dawn ceremony is pretty dull. We wouldn't have been able to miss it if we weren't tied up looking after our poor, injured friend."

"Happy to oblige," Rodney answered. "Please, feel free to use my pain and suffering as an excuse to avoid inconvenience whenever you want."

The main clearing opened up before them suddenly. It had been a while since Rodney had seen it. They'd added some permanent cabins to the forest of tents. A new radio shack was bristling with antennae. Long, bright pavilions had been erected with the shining cloth extruded by the city's fabricators.

Teyla ran at them, squealing like a not-terribly-intelligent child. She hugged Sheppard and Carson exuberantly and Rodney gently. Rodney looked her over and snorted. "You're wearing flowers."

She smiled tolerantly. "We have not had such a harvest in years. The ground here is very fertile, and we planted fortuitously. It is important to celebrate such a harvest properly, or else it will not be soon repeated." Solemnly, she pulled a flower from behind her ear and, with a deft flicker of fingers, braided it into Rodney's short hair. "Come. Halling has saved a place for you toward the front. We are about to start."

A corral had been marked off and crude benches set around it. Many people sat on the ground, but Halling had indeed saved a cluster of seats for them. Elizabeth was already there. She was also wearing flowers, and she *also* hugged everyone as they arrived. So did Halling. So did Ronon. Well. It was going to be a day of flowers and hugging, then. As holidays went... not very tempting. In fact, almost anything Rodney could think of made a better celebration than flowers and hugging. Throwing rocks, for example. Eating bugs. Flowers and hugging was the bottom of the barrel. Then he caught Sheppard's eye, saw the resignation and stretched patience that almost exactly matched his own. Rodney smiled.

The bench was hard and had no back. That would get uncomfortable; Rodney still couldn't sit very long without any support. He leaned his forearms on his knees and rested his weight that way. He might be able to manage a couple of hours this way. He had to hope the sporting event wouldn't last that long.

A dozen Athosians came into the corral, followed by another carrying an animal the size of a small dog, and one last carrying a large jar. The animal bearer and the jar bearer came to the center, but the others divided into two clumps and began to chant and shout. The crowd chanted and shouted back. "It looks like a pep rally," John whispered.

"I'm peppy," Rodney whispered back. He decided that if they were going to sacrifice the animal, he wasn't going to look. The animal was sleek and pointy and hairless. It looked odd.

Cheering and yelling and waving of arms. Nobody back on Earth got this excited *before* the game, no matter how hard the cheerleaders tried. And the Athosians didn't even have pompoms.

At some signal Rodney never noticed, the people in the corral turned around and bowed. The man holding the animal set it on the ground. The man with the jar upended it on the animal. The animal squealed and leaped free.

Rodney's jaw dropped. "It's a greased pig chase," he muttered.

It was, sort of. Except there seemed to be some organization going on. Some strategy. Some careful teamwork. It reminded him a bit of soccer, if the ball ran and you were allowed to grab for it.

Not that the strategy seemed to be helping. Nobody could lay hands on the ugly thing. It was fast. It didn't try to jump or climb out of the corral, though. Rodney would have thought it might; the walls weren't very high.

There was a near miss, as a young woman dove for the glistening, slippery beast, missed, crashed into the wall. The crowd cheered. Or jeered, it was hard to tell. "Hey, Teyla," Rodney said, leaning over Sheppard to get her attention, "Why aren't you out there?"

A peripheral sadness flickered at her eyes. "If I were to compete, my moiety would have an unfair advantage."

"Your moiety?"

"The half of my community into which my mother was born."

"Your mother?" Rodney repeated, wondering how he had gotten sucked further and further into this discussion.

Elizabeth reached over Carson's shoulder to tap Rodney on the shoulder. "Stop now, unless you want to spend the next four hours looking at diagrams of Athosian bilateral kinship."

"Right. Thanks."

There was more cheering. Rodney looked up and saw the small animal leap over four fallen team members and dart across the enclosure. He found himself yelling, too. It wasn't clear who he was cheering for.

Eventually, the capture was made. There was lots of cheering then. The victors (Rodney assumed) did a victory lap. There was more singing and cheering. People threw flowers. The animal was carried away, still living, to a shed near the trees.

The crowd broke up and began to drift away. Rodney waited, not eager to push his way through them. His companions waited with him until Rodney carefully got to his feet. "What now?" he asked.

"There is food beneath the pavilions," Teyla said, pointing.

Mostly, people sat on blankets or cushions, but there were 'chairs,' too; they were low, but soft and they had good support. There was shade, which was nice. There were jugs of cold water and thin Athosian beer.

Teyla took up a round fruit the size of a melon and a wide knife. With a deft move, she carved a long slice and, pinching the fruit between her index finger and the flat of the knife, offered it to Elizabeth. The knife point was sharp. Teyla's hand was steady. Her fingers were long and graceful...

It was weird to watch. This was his *boss* taking the thin slice of fruit between her small, sharp teeth. Weird, weird. Also hot. Damn. Yet another vision of Elizabeth he didn't need in meetings.

Weirder and hotter watching Teyla feed Sheppard. Kind of scary to watch her feed Ronon....

She turned to Rodney. All he could think was, when was the last time she'd washed her hands? But this was Teyla. Rodney opened his mouth and braced his weight against the chair so he could lean forward and take the solid, yellow flesh into his mouth. The fruit was very sweet.

She moved on to Carson. He didn't complain aloud about germs, either, although Rodney could tell he was thinking it.

"If we're all feeding each other," Rodney began, "it'll take forever to eat."

Teyla smiled. "Only the first bite is ceremonial." She set the fruit aside and wiped her knife on her skirt, which made Rodney wince. She lowered her voice, "A piece of advice; do not overeat. There is a great deal of food, and the meat is still coming." She nodded to an open space between the village and the pavilions where a small group of people were pulling apart a large campfire with hoes.

Because Rodney had taken so long to arrive, everyone else sitting under the clustered pavilions was already passing huge baskets of food around. Loose baskets of bread. Tight baskets of porridge. Shallow baskets of fruit. Narrow baskets of -- "Is that popcorn? Are you growing popcorn?"

"We are planting it for the first time this spring. Elizabeth donated this supply as a symbol of encouragement. For luck in the next harvest." She tilted the basket toward him.

There were no plates. Rodney glanced at Carson, who was trying very hard not to look unhappy, and probably doing a better job of it than Rodney. Popcorn was one thing. Porridge would be another.

"I have a custom of my own," Carson said, nudging Elizabeth as she reached for a basket of roasted tubers with the complete oblivion to sanitation you'd expect from a diplomat. Carson produced a handful of alcohol wipes and proceeded to clean the hands of everyone in their little group. He was very solemn and official about the whole thing, but Rodney could tell from Teyla's overly tolerant silence that she saw through his ruse.

Ronon submitted to the wash smirking a little. Apparently, he had his 'good' barbarian manners on, because he was eating very tidily with just his fingers. Not a speck of food went astray. The man was amazing. Even with clean hands, though, Rodney wasn't ready to dip his fingers into the porridge. It smelled wonderful, but... he took a chunk of bread and dipped. It was as good as it smelled, making him feel both relieved (that it was edible) and disappointed (that he didn't dare eat very much.)

There was small beer (which Rodney couldn't have because it would interact with his meds), there was a supply of imported yoghurt drink (which Rodney also couldn't have, because it hadn't been pasteurized), and a tea made of purple leaves (which Rodney could have because although he was pretty sure it was caffeinated, Carson hadn't noticed that). Everyone had his own cup.

Back at the campfire, the workers had finished digging and were hauling out the blackened body of some kind of huge, six-legged animal. It was downwind from the pavilion, so Rodney couldn't tell if it smelled as appalling as it looked. "Don't those poor guys get to eat?" Rodney asked.

"They were the winners of the Chase," Teyla said. "It is their honor to remove the beast."

They were maneuvering it with sticks and ropes, and someone was holding a huge, ceremonial stone axe. Right, hack it apart. He had thought the Americans were crazy about barbequing huge sides of meat. "Lucky them."

By the time baskets loaded with hunks of meat were being passed from hand to hand, Elizabeth and Teyla had excused themselves to schmooze and do the gracious leadership thing. The meat itself smelled very good, but Rodney wasn't sure how he'd *get* any off the huge, slippery chunk until Sheppard passed his field knife around. Carson only hesitated a moment, then hacked a slice off and offered the knife to Rodney.

'This is all very surreal,' Rodney thought to himself, cautiously carving off something that stuck out a little. 'What is this saying about me, that I'm enjoying it this much? Because really. This is not normal.'

Halling and Jinto came by. They had ropes of flowers, which they shared. Sheppard faked some gratitude and gave them a chocolate bar. Mardru (Mardera? Mardra?), who was apprenticing with Carson, came by. She also had flowers and wanted to hug everybody. A perky teenager with new breasts and wide, vapid eyes came over and flirted shamelessly with Ronon.

Rodney ate as much as he dared and thought longingly of more. It wasn't worth the risk. Not at all. As the feast began to wind down, Rodney leaned back in the chair and consciously relaxed. Some of the younger kids began to run between the pavilions, blowing soap bubbles. Someone--Rodney had never heard who--had rigged a bubble wand up not long after the Athosians had first arrived, and the custom had been embraced by the children. It annoyed the adults for some reason, so they were only allowed to play with them on special occasions. The sun shown on the bubbles, and Rodney found his eyes following one up and up, impossibly high, clearing the trees....

Rousing himself, Rodney carefully eased himself up from the low chair. He'd been sitting too long, and at an odd angle. His entire torso had stiffened up, but Rodney managed not to wince. Maybe Carson saw the wince anyway, because he broke off his conversation with Ronon to ask, "All you all right?"

"I just need some air," Rodney said quickly.

Ronon looked at Rodney as though he'd lost his mind. "The air is pretty much the same everywhere on the planet. If there's something wrong with the air here, you're out of luck."

Sheppard smirked. "'Getting some air' is English code for he's had enough of us and wants a few minutes' peace."

Rodney was getting better at reading Ronon's amusement. He was inwardly laughing when he said, "It must be you, then. I'm great company."

Rodney flipped Ronon off and slowly made his way past the roasting pit (still warm and the air tasted ashy), planning to disappear for a few minutes behind the little cabins the Athosians lived in. Walking helped with the stiffness a bit, but the ground was just uneven enough to make him move very carefully.

He had a shadow, of course. A patient, silent shadow that didn't hurry him or ask pointless questions. It seemed like a very long time since he'd walked on uneven ground, listening to the sound of Sheppard's feet.

Rodney paused beside a thick tree, and with one hand braced against his stomach, he leaned against the trunk and bent forward to stretch his lower back. Two broad, hard hands caught him gently under the shoulder blades. "Here?" Sheppard asked.

"Lower. There." Sheppard had never taken Rodney's back problems seriously before, which meant he had been having long talks with Rodney's doctor. It wasn't Carson's fault. Sometimes, Rodney was Sheppard's subordinate. He had a right to know. But Rodney badly missed privacy and confidentiality and the feeling that he had even a little control over his life.

Or at least that was the train of thought until the heels of Sheppard's hands caught him *right there* on either side of the vertebra and the tension that was threatening to turn into a Very Bad Thing suddenly eased. "Damn," Rodney whispered. The pressure lightened at once. "No. No, good damn."

"Are you okay?"

"Huh." Rodney leaned slightly from side to side, loosening the stiffened muscles. "I can't remember the last time you asked me that."

"I've been afraid of the answer."

'Oh,' Rodney thought.

After a moment, Sheppard continued, "I didn't realize how much I'd missed you until today, when every once in a while you were you again."

Rodney didn't know how to answer that.

"Do you need to rest?"

"I don't want to go home." He realized he sounded like he was about six, but the words, "I'm not tired," came out anyway.

"Halling offered his cabin. It's quiet. There's a bed. You could take a little break and come back."

Rodney glanced over his shoulder. He'd heard that coaxing tone dozens of times over the last few weeks. It made him feel a little suspicious, but Sheppard was wearing a slightly impatient, humoring expression, not a worried one.

Seeing the look, Sheppard asked, "What?"

"Nothing. It's just weirding me out, you being this *nice* to me."

Sheppard looked away. "No, I'm not usually very patient with you, am I?" He looked guilty about that, even though Rodney had been sure that he knew exactly how it worked between them.

"I have a tendency toward panicking," Rodney began. "I can see all the things that can possibly go wrong, and all the disastrous results each one would have. I freak. At really inconvenient times. I know that. And you're in charge of my team, so you have to handle that. Handle me."

"You're not a liability," Sheppard said quickly.

"Because you won't let me be."

"What?"

"You tell me we can cope with--whatever shit is hitting the fan and I believe you. You tell me I'm wasting time and that I can *solve* all the crazy disasters I'm seeing... and I try. You," Rodney swallowed, "You believe in me. Who the hell cares if you're cranky and impatient? You ask more of me, you expect more of me," Rodney broke off, thinking. "I remember most of what you said that night. In the living cavern. About us."

"Rodney..."

"I just wanted to say. That what we do have. It's a lot more important to me than what I don't have. I just wanted to say."

Which is when Sheppard hugged him.

It hurt. Not physically. Physically, it was fine. Physically, it eased the weight off Rodney's hips in a way that felt really good. But even so, in other respects it hurt. This touching was only because Sheppard knew--like everybody else--that Rodney was pretty much a basket case right now. There would never be hugging from want. Rodney would always have to share with bimbos who might or might not be prettier than him but would always be stupider.

For a moment it seemed that he couldn't bear it. No, not at all. The longing. The sharp, sharp disappointment. The horrible rejection. This would kill him. He would split in half. This wanting, this hurt.

Utter crap, of course. You didn't really die from a broken heart. This *felt* like the end of the world, but the sun would rise tomorrow just the same. Rodney would survive this, like it or not. He damn well better make sure that when he did get over this romantic insanity he still had his best friend. Rodney took a deep breath. "Nap," he said. "I'll take you up on that nap." Some quiet. A moment to collect himself. To rest....

Halling's cabin wasn't far. The door was unlatched, of course. The Athosians had no reason to keep out their neighbors and no way to keep out the Wraith. The bed was done up in furs. Ick. But a small pile of emergency blankets had been left piled on the room's only table. Sheppard laid them out on the bed so Rodney wouldn't have to deal with sleeping on dead, alien animals.

The bed was low, but Sheppard braced Rodney as he eased down onto it. He helped Rodney shift up his legs, gently removed the shoes. "Come back for me in a couple of hours," Rodney said. "I don't want to miss anything." He hoped Sheppard couldn't tell he wasn't kidding.

"I'll wake you in a couple of hours."

Heavy and tired, Rodney dreamed about the beam of his flashlight. It played over Ancient crystal wafers, so much more sophisticated than the pillars and rhomboids used by the Goa'uld. You couldn't tell from how a wafer looked where it was supposed to go or what it did. He dreamed about thousands of identical wafers being picked over in the light of his single, pale light.

He dreamed of the amber glow of Ancient emergency lighting. A console displaying a giant, red, English countdown rather than tidy, Ancient power consumption read-outs.

He dreamed about a tiny, stupid woman who was carrying a sword rather than a short digging tool.

He dreamed these things again, unable to escape them. One passed into another. He was miserable, when, finally, thickly, he woke up.

Waking, there was no light at all. The cabin was filled with a heavy darkness. Outside was the sound of alien night birds and the hiss of local insects and voices singing. Inside--

Sheppard had forgotten him. Damn it. Rodney shoved himself up to sitting and scrubbed a hand across his face. His eyes were filled with salt and his mouth was dry and bitter. Damn it--

"Rodney! Oh, god, are you all right?" Sheppard. Rodney hadn't been left then. Perhaps Sheppard had fallen asleep, too. There was another bed. In a weird deja vu, a flashlight blinked on. Sheppard twisted it to diffuse the beam and set it down. Shapes, now, and grey shadows. "Rodney?"

"What happened?" he muttered. "Why didn't you get me up?"

"Why didn't I--I couldn't *wake* you up! I called Carson, who had to check to see if you'd slipped into a coma or something. Jeeze!"

"You couldn't--? What? Why not?" It was starting to dawn on him that something important might have happened, and Rodney shoved at the heavy sleepiness. "You couldn't wake me?"

"I shook you. I yelled at you. You scared the crap out of me."

"Oh. Huh. What did Carson say?" Rodney was fairly sure he wasn't currently in a coma or anything else horrible, now that he thought about it.

"That you were sleeping and you probably needed it and that I'm getting a little tense and should probably take some time off." He laughed a little. It sounded more like relief than amusement. Sheppard came over to the low bed and offered Rodney a cup. It felt like it was carved from wood, but it might be made of horn or bone or something equally disgusting. It was full of water, though, so Rodney drank gratefully. "How do you feel?"

"I'm okay," he said, because he didn't want to think about the restless ache in his back or the endless tension in his gut or how stiff everything was. Anyway, he was close enough to 'okay' for the problems not to count. He wasn't bleeding anywhere. Or cold. Or sick. Or anything.

Sheppard fetched another cup of water, this time passing Rodney four small pills as well. "Ibuprofen," he said. "Carson left them."

Rodney downed the water and the pills without argument. "How's the party?"

"Well, I wouldn't know. I've spent the last five hours here."

That sounded like a criticism, and Rodney defended himself automatically, "I didn't ask you to stay--"

"No. No, you didn't. You just scared the living crap out of me!" He was on his feet and pacing, looking for all the world like he was *angry* about something, though for the life of him Rodney couldn't imaging at what. Rodney hadn't done anything. Completely oblivious to (for example) logic or coherence, Sheppard was continuing, "You can't keep doing this to me. It has to stop."

Feeling at a disadvantage, Rodney struggled to his feet. He had to heave with both arms and grab the wall to get up alone. "Are you even listening to yourself? I didn't do anything to you. I just fell asleep. It was your idea, anyway. Why the hell are you yelling at me? I admit, there have been times when I've cut you some slack--sometimes you can't help being a moron--but, really, no, not today. I'm sure I've had a much harder month than you and you really *don't* have anything to complain about."

Sheppard paced to a halt. Turned. Came over to Rodney and studied him in the dim light of the single, muted flashlight. "You have never cut me any slack, McKay. Not once."

Rodney let out a breath. "Okay, no. I haven't. But I would have if I thought you needed it."

"I'm sorry. I'm not being very good at this."

"Really? You think so? I hadn't noticed."

He took a step closer. "We all had to see Heitmeyer. The team."

"Why? Have you all gone crazy while I've been locked up? Because I won't be responsible for your sanity while I'm on sick leave--"

Sheppard refused to be teased or jollied. "Because this sort of thing, it's hard on family. On family. They made you go, didn't they? When I tried to turn into a bug?"

Rodney had already been seeing her at that point, but now that it came up, that month they'd had lots of long talks about Kafka and personhood and identity.

Sheppard continued, "I think she keeps trying to tell me I'm doing this all wrong, but I don't get.... I'm most pissed because I can't help you. I can't stand seeing you hurt. I can't--I can't even think about losing you. My best friend," he whispered. "And I can't work. Well, I *can* work without you. But *with* you... with you it's not even work. It's something else. I wish I knew what to do, how to fix...." He broke off, incoherent and miserable.

In the face of this incoherent venting, Rodney cursed inwardly. "You're going to make me be reasonable, aren't you? You want me to sort this out. Well, you're shit out of luck, buddy, because I'm not wise. Even if I felt like sorting all this out, I'm not the person to talk to." Rodney froze, a thought occurring to him. "Anyway, I think you are doing it right. Because you're here. I don't need you to fix me or understand everything or even be patient with everything. I need you to be *here*, trying, getting it wrong."

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not. I need," he paused, thinking, "I need you to calm down and pull it back together after I scare you. I need you to be patient when I'm not any fun--which, to be honest, is 'usually' these days--and I need you to forgive me for--for loving you, which seems to make everything worse."

He should not have said that last. It was cruel. A reminder of the pain John couldn't help causing. A reminder of the barrier Rodney's idiocy and weakness had put between them. Rodney wished he could forget that last. He wished he hadn't said it. He wished he'd never felt it. He wished those feeling would go away. He wished he were stronger. Or braver. Or wiser. It wasn't even very comforting that Sheppard had never seemed to mind that Rodney wasn't strong or brave or wise.

"We're almost through," Sheppard whispered. "It's almost over. Carson says you'll make a full recovery. You'll be allowed to go home soon. To your quarters, I mean. We just have to hang on a little longer, Rodney." He took a deep breath. "We can do this."

"Right. Okay. A little longer. It's going to end."

"I'm seeing more and more of you. You're getting better. The sleeping thing. It wasn't a bad sign. You just needed some rest."

"Right. Really. It wasn't anything."

Sheppard took another deep breath. "So. Are you hungry?"

"Starving," Rodney said, though he wasn't.

Sheppard retrieved his flashlight, focused the beam a bit, and showed Rodney the path to the door. There were fires and torches outside, bright points of orange light that flickered and danced. He could smell cooking; fish this time and something pungent and something sweet.

The ground was uneven and the moving shadows cast by the flashlight didn't give a clear view, so Sheppard kept one hand on Rodney's upper arm. "So they party all night and all day tomorrow?" There were shadows in the night, fast moving. People dancing. "How do they keep it up?"

"Everybody naps, apparently," Sheppard said, guiding Rodney around a patch of rocky ground. "Not our people, of course. We only get shifts."

It turned out that the really good desserts came out after dark. There were confections made from the red-bread flour. Rodney ate two and stopped; there was nothing like the vivid memory of his intestines trying to turn themselves inside out to improve self-discipline. There were nuts rolled in something like honey (Rodney didn't think too closely about where terrestrial honey came from and didn't speculate on this stuff) and then in something like flakes of licorice. There was cake. There was lumpy pudding, like tapioca or rice pudding. It was all very good. Rodney sat under one of the pavilions munching slowly on sweets and watching the Athosians dance, first to their own a capella singing, then to someone's boom box playing Earth tunes.

It turned out that the Athosians were Jimmy Buffett fans. Who could have guessed? They had to have the lyrics explained and they tended to get them wrong when singing along, but the whole thing was too surreal for Rodney to come up with a grounded criticism.

Sometime into the ninth round of "margaritaville" he tugged on Sheppard's arm and asked if there was a shuttle home soon.

The next day, Rodney slept quite a bit. When he was awake, he seemed more awake than usual. His joints didn't seem as stiff. His stomach wasn't as tight. His balance was better. Even the light seemed a little brighter.

Radek joined him for dinner. The Athosian celebration was still going on, so the commissary wasn't as crowded as usual. Dinner, too, was unusually simple, since the cooks were also taking turns visiting the mainland. As always, Radek was griping almost absently about his current projects. He had given up trying to get Rodney's input, but he faithfully kept up the discussion anyway. Tonight's version was ongoing problems with the internal sensors, which had been taking themselves off-line every ten minutes all day. The problem was serious enough that Radek had skipped his visit to the party on the mainland, and still, they'd had no success in diagnosing the problem. "I swear the error message is some kind of joke. That is the worst part. Dead and gone ten thousand years and they are mocking us. 'You have failed to achieve elegant completion.' Obviously. But it is too much to ask that they specify how?"

Rodney reached for the water carafe and refilled his water. "You checked the nodules?"

"All one hundred and forty-three that are currently connected. They all respond to 'ping' quite nicely. You check them, you reboot the system, you turn them on, and a few minutes later the whole series shuts down."

Rodney imagined how tedious that must have been. "What about when you checked them with a hand scanner? See if they're leaking radiation?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because something is not achieving elegant completion, and it might be the containment shielding on a converter in one of those sensor nodules."

Radek dumped his half-eaten dinner back on to his tray and stood up. "I hate you," he said. "You know this, right?"

Rodney shrugged. "Happy to help. Hey, if you're not going to eat that Jello--?"

Snorting, Radek replaced his dish of Jello on the table and stormed off muttering about radiation leaks and error messages.

The next morning, Carson put Rodney through a full body scan. He 'hmm'ed over the results for a few minutes and then patted Rodney on the shoulder and pronounced him discharged.

He'd mentioned it obliquely over the last few days, but Rodney hadn't let himself think about it too much. Not that he didn't want out, he did, but it had seemed so impossibly far away. It still did. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Carson sighed. "You're feeding yourself, bathing yourself, you have no problem managing in the loo. You'll be here twice a day for PT anyway, and you'll have a radio on you at all times. Quiet and privacy will do you good."

Rodney hadn't enjoyed the little alcove, but the idea of being out of Caron's easy reach was a little alarming. As he returned to his bed to collect his things, he reached down to ghost his fingers over the scar. It was flat and nearly smooth. It didn't hurt. So. Okay. Better. And discharged. Okay.

There wasn't much to carry.

It wasn't a long trip, neither from the infirmary to the transporter, nor from the transporter to his room.

His room was exactly the same. Well, his garbage had been emptied. There hadn't been much, but the city's waste disposal system couldn't handle power bar wrappers. His bed had been made. All that had happened, and his *life* was just as he'd left it.

Rodney sat on the bed. It was more comfortable than the one in the infirmary, even though that had been an Ancient smartmatress. Huh.

Rodney put on his headset, did a radio check, and then set it on standby, so that he'd get general announcements, but not the ones targeted specifically to his department or team. He went to an early lunch, checked a movie out of the library, went to afternoon PT and took a nap, trying to get used to the idea that he had been released.

He had a dinner--a fairly normal dinner--with his team in the commissary. Teyla still looked like she was recovering from the two-day party. Ronon--who had done some of the big game hunting that had supplied the feast--was telling stories about creeping through the woods and slaughtering huge animals. Sheppard was slightly distracted, looking over the field report in advance of the next day's mission. It all felt very normal.

After dinner, Rodney wandered down to the labs. He hadn't been there in... no, he wouldn't count up the days. It didn't matter. He was getting better now. He'd be working soon. He wouldn't think about how bad things had been or how much time he'd lost.

He found Zelenka and Frye bent over one of the magnifying lenses, carefully dissembling a small part that had been pretty small to begin with.

Rodney leaned over their shoulders, bracing himself against the counter when he felt his stomach stretch uncomfortably. "That one of the sensor nodes?" he asked.

"The broken one," Zelenka grunted. "Number ninety-seven. Before we took it apart, you couldn't have told there was anything wrong with it unless you were standing on a ladder holding a scanner six centimeters from the casing." With a tiny circular-saw he was cutting a sliver out of the little silver ball that was the main input.

"Radioactive?" Rodney asked.

"Five different kinds. We crumbled the core to dust and cast it on the floor. You are probably standing in it now."

Frye shifted uncomfortably. "No, really, we put the core in containment over there." He pointed.

"How very nearly competent of you," Rodney said. Frye flinched, but Zelenka ignored the tease and lifted out his sliver of purple metal with a pair of tweezers.

Rodney spent the rest of the evening just watching as they disassembled and analyzed the tiny sensor. They hadn't found a supply of extras, so the broken one had been replaced from a part of the city that was powered down anyway. This was their first chance to do a mechanical autopsy on one that had been functional at all. It was interesting and undemanding and Rodney left feeling strangely happy.

The next day he found his morning PT regimen changed. Not walking or yoga, but free weights. Rodney very quickly discovered why he'd never taken up weights before. Aside from the fact that the very idea of bodysculpting was pointless and stupid. It was boring. And uncomfortable, but mostly boring. Possibly the most boring thing any human had done ever. The session seemed to last forever, and Rodney was pretty sure his spirit was completely broken by the time it ended.

When he came out of the narrow inner corridor that led to the therapy room, the main infirmary was in an uproar. What initially struck him as a riot really consisted only of Ronon arguing with a doctor and three of the nurses. Well, not arguing. Ronon just seemed to be getting dressed. Everyone else was yelling.

Just as Rodney was trying to decide if he could safely walk around them and out the door without adding to the chaos, Carson came storming out of the med-lab, wiping his hands on a towel and bellowing, "What the bloody hell is going on out here? Have you perhaps not noticed that this is a hospital?"

The staff abruptly shut up. Ronon paused in his dressing to turn to Carson and say, almost politely, "I'm leaving."

"The hell you are," Carson answered promptly. "Get your arse back in that bed."

"I'm fine." Rodney could tell from his expression that he thought he was being reasonable and patient. Rodney winced.

"Was there some part of 'cardiac arrest' you didn't understand? Because I'd be happy to explain. Get back in that bed--now--or I'll sedate you and strap you down."

"I don't need--"

"Did you think I was *kidding*?"

Ronon abruptly sat down.

"Take off your shoes and lie down."

Ronon obeyed.

"We'll not have this discussion again. I don't have time for this nonsense."

Ronon sighed and sullenly turned his back to the door.

Rodney was kind of astonished. "What happened?" he whispered to the nearest nurse. Irina? Aria? Aretha?

She answered equally softly, her eyes still watching Ronon. "He had a mission this morning. A delivery. They got ambushed on the planet."

Rodney swallowed hard, trying to remember where they'd been going. "Was anyone else hurt?" Sheppard hadn't acted like he was worried about today. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal.

Irena shrugged. "Cuts and bruises. Nothing special." She waved a hand at Ronon. "Poison dart."

Rodney went over to the bed. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Ronon glared. "They took a 'sample' of my piss," he said bitterly.

Rodney tried to look encouraging. "It can't have been the first time," he said kindly.
Ronon pointedly looked in another direction.

"I'm sure they'll let you out soon."

"Go away."

Rodney nodded. "Gone," he said.

It was too early for lunch, and for once Rodney seemed to have time on his hands between activities and no desire for a nap. He hesitated for a moment at the transporter, wondering. He could wander down to the lab. He'd done it last night. Carson hadn't forbidden him to work. Okay, it was obvious that Rodney *couldn't* work, but he could just poke around a bit, say hi, that sort of thing. Right?

It turned out to be spectacular fun. He popped into occupied labs and firmly requested a report. No one had been expecting an inspection. Nobody was ready, or even up to faking it. Several people got mocked for idiocy. A couple of the newer chemical engineers nearly pissed themselves with fear when Rodney began to ask pointed questions about their (actually neither incompetent nor even ill-advised) current projects. It was amazingly sweet, this reminder that yes, Rodney *was* that much scarier, that much better than everybody else. He'd forgotten what that felt like. He felt like he'd been away from himself for a long time.

He tired of it fairly quickly, though. The sixth underling he encountered, a German (Linka? Linke? Kunkle? Lancre? Something.) reminded him that while having incompetent staff could be amusing, mostly it was inconvenient and dangerous. His computer was displaying output calculations for the new naquadah back-up generators and Rodney was fairly sure they were *wrong*.

Grumbling, Rodney moved him aside and called up the generator specs. Briefly, he paused to point out the error, then he returned to the keyboard and redid the math himself.

It wasn't difficult work. It was kind of fun. Rodney was about half-finished when he heard, "Wow, McKay. I'm impressed. You've been out of the infirmary for only twenty-four hours and already you have your staff scurrying around looking for rocks to hide under." Sheppard. Right. The mission was cut short by hostile locals.

Rodney disengaged his brain enough to look up and grunt politely.

Sheppard came closer. "Come on," he said softly. "You're not cleared for duty yet. Let's go for a walk."

"I'm fine," Rodney said.

A pause. A single finger tapping the back of Rodney's hand. "It's almost lunch time."

"Not now. I'm busy."

Sheppard must have left, but Rodney didn't see it. He was comparing the output equations to the specs of the conduit system that was going to be put in place to carry the power. Wow, wasn't that going to be a disaster when all the capacitors exploded. "Tell me you haven't started building this yet," he snapped at the German.

"No, this is just preliminary--"

"Good. Start over."

It was, Rodney realized, past lunchtime. Rodney headed toward the commissary. Maybe he could catch up with Sheppard.

He noticed, as he took his tray toward the tables and looked around for someone to sit with, that the commissary, while crowded, was awfully quiet. It wasn't that people weren't talking. They were just talking very softly. He wasn't sure it wasn't a figment of his imagination, and even if something were going on, he wasn't sure he wanted to get drawn in, but while he didn't spot Sheppard, he spotted Teyla sitting with Halling, and loomed beside them until Teyla motioned him to sit.

"So," he said, still not sure if he wanted to ask.

Teyla nodded somberly. Apparently, this was meant to communicate something significant.

Rodney sighed inwardly. "I hear the mission didn't go well."

She looked at him hard and shook her head. The mission might or might not be the current problem, then.

Halling shot a look of appeal toward Rodney and said to Teyla, "The Hoffans made their choices. They understood the consequences they were risking. The consequences were tragic, but they brought their fate upon themselves."

Teyla shook her head. "Do not blame them. The Wraith are responsible. No one else. The Hoffans had no good choices; how can they be faulted for making a bad one?"

Rodney frowned. "Back up," he said. "You weren't going to Hoff." No one went to Hoff, not when word got out what they had done. They were marked. They were finished, even though they hadn't admitted it themselves yet, and everyone knew it. The Wraith might have tolerated them being inedible, but not poisonous.

Teyla met Rodney's gaze with eyes that were soft and sad. "We believe, from their weapons, their clothing, the way they spoke," she sighed, "we believe they were Hoffans. When we were on Ervalla receiving the shipment of fish, a raiding party came through the gate. They were badly armed. Tattered. Disorganized. Desperate. The Ervallans don't have much in the way of defenses; what is the point, when they cannot defeat the Wraith? It was an ugly fight. Many died on both sides. We nearly lost Ronon."

Rodney's mouth went dry. He washed down the current mouthful of brown bread and set the rest of the slice back on the plate. "Excuse me," he said politely. He set a new post-gutting speed record for himself bussing his tray and rushing to the quiet corridor outside. He touched his communicator. "Control, this is McKay. What's the current location of Colonel Sheppard?"

It took a moment, because the interface between the communicators and the internal sensors was slow. "*He's in the west gym.*"

The west gym wasn't near a transporter. It wasn't a *long* walk, but Rodney hurried. He had one hand braced against the pull in his stomach and he was covered in a fine sweat by the time he reached the door.

It wouldn't open for him. Rodney tried the manual control. No luck there either. Rodney knocked.

Sheppard's voice, muffled, answered, "Occupied."

"It's me," Rodney shouted back.

There was a pause, and then Sheppard's voice came from the headset: "*Now isn't a good time*."

"Open the damn door."

There was a longer pause, then, "*I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But I can't.*"

Alarmed now, Rodney pounded again. "Open the door."

"*Leave me alone. I'm sorry, but I can't deal with you now. Go away.*"

Rodney turned, almost running this time, back the way he'd come. Ronon? useless for information. Teyla was upset. Carson--oh, crap, Carson must be a basket case. Hoff. No wonder he'd yelled at Ronon. Radek? He heard everything. No doubt he had been at the debriefing. He probably knew what had happened. But Rodney didn't want to discuss Colonel Sheppard with Zelenka. He found himself on the way to Elizabeth's office, instead.

He slowed down for the last few meters, trying to get his breathing under control, trying to look reasonable and reliable instead of the confused and frantic he felt.

Elizabeth was seated at her desk, her hands folded primly, her eyes cast down and unfocused. Rodney cleared his throat, stepped in, closed the door. She looked up, and for a moment he saw the exhaustion, the bitterness. Then she smiled the stiff smile that had started every conversation between them while he'd been in the infirmary and said pleasantly, "Hello, Rodney."

"Yeah," Rodney said, waving his hand to acknowledge the greeting, "What the hell is going on?"

She waved him to a chair. Not the one across the desk, but one of the ones by the window. She came over and joined him, sighing as she sat down. "You've heard they were Hoffans," she guessed. "I can confirm that. Loren took a team through to help the Ervallans clean up and dispose of the bodies. He sent back pictures."

"Right. That explains why Carson is completely freaked out. And why the Athosians are upset, because they knew the Hoffans. An hour ago Sheppard was looking for me, and now he's locked himself in the gym and won't come out, and what the hell is going on? Is it--What exactly happened to Ronon?"

"They were using make-shift weapons. They had some projectile handguns. Some farming tools." Elizabeth turned her head to look out the window, but her voice remained steady. "And some poison darts. Ronon was hit. Apparently, the poison was very painful. It shut down his... the field medics had to resuscitate him, but he was conscious and breathing on his own when they brought him home."

"I see," Rodney said. He remembered Carson shouting about cardiac arrest. He supposed he'd assumed it had been a threat, not a recap. Wow. He realized, with surprise, that he would have missed Ronon if he'd died. And Sheppard and Ronon were sort of close. But why hadn't Sheppard been in the infirmary, if that was the problem? The staff would surely have been overjoyed to have someone Ronon respected hanging around making sure he didn't try to bolt. "And...John?"

She glanced at him. Her mouth seemed to get very small. She shook her head sadly. "I'm not sure. We sent a probe to Hoff. The place is in ruins. Not just culling, but punishment for resistance. Slaughter, with the bodies left to rot in the streets. We helped them do this to themselves. John...."

Rodney remembered the conversation between Halling and Teyla in the commissary.

Elizabeth sighed. "It wasn't just the weapons that weren't really military. The raiding party," she lowered her voice, "was mostly young teenagers and kids, some old men, women. The pictures... even dead, they looked desperate. Our people had to defend themselves, our allies against such pathetic--"

Rodney remembered, suddenly, something-M78, where nobody was allowed to live all the way to twenty-five, and the look on Sheppard's face when armed children had stepped out of the trees and threatened them. "Oh, crap," he said.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Kate says terrible things happen here. Happen to us, but we feel guilty. We look for fault. We carry it with us, we try to make sense of it, but it's not what we think it is. And we can't just... wish it away."

Kate. Elizabeth had been talking to Heitmeyer. Well, everybody did, at least sometimes. That was policy. But.

Rodney wondered what Elizabeth said, when she talked to Heitmeyer. He wondered how Heitmeyer bore it. Because really? Physics took brains. But psychology took something else, and whatever it was, Rodney didn't have it.

"Colonel Sheppard," Rodney took a deep breath, "John can cope with this."

"He shouldn't have to," Elizabeth said sadly. "He's such a good man. He really is. And I brought him here. I brought you all here."

Oh *fuck*. Because he couldn't stand the look on Elizabeth's face--and could not stand the thought of what Sheppard must be going through right then--he said, "I'll look after John. I'll... well, I don't know. But I'll make sure he's okay. I'll figure something out."

"If you need me--"

"If I need advice, I've got Heitmeyer," Rodney said. "You need to go to Carson."

She stood up, paced angrily before him. "What the hell am I going to say to Carson?" she demanded. "What the hell can I say, Rodney? You know what he's thinking!"

"Not exactly," although he had a pretty good idea. "Lizabeth--"

"I know. I know. I have to *be* there."

"So?"

"So, what if he doesn't forgive me," she said. "I got him into this, too. He didn't want... hopping around by stargate in the first place, never mind what the Hoffans did with his research. And I ordered him--"

He had seen her upset before. Usually, when she was upset she just got quiet. And usually--usually--she could cope with the most appalling, horrible crap, just absorb it and make the decisions and go on. Elizabeth handled people. That was her great talent. Now she was a mess and Rodney had no idea what to say. "You did the right thing," he said, knowing that it would probably not help. It had never helped any of the other times he'd said it to her.

Her eyes shown with tears. "Yes, we did. At every turn we did the right thing, and guess what?" She scrubbed at her eyes. "It's the right thing to mourn for the Hoffans. The right thing to be angry at the Wraith. And the right thing to keep going." She touched her headset. "I'm going off comm. I'll be in the infirmary in case of emergency, but *only* for an emergency." She headed toward the door. "Thanks, Rodney. Good luck."

Rodney didn't hurry back to the gym. Sheppard wouldn't open that door until he was good and ready, and he had the stamina to keep at the calisthenics or punching bag or whatever for another hour anyway. When Rodney reached the door, control confirmed that Sheppard was still inside. Sighing, Rodney slowly lowered himself to the floor and settled in to wait.

He leaned his head against the wall, letting himself doze, since he couldn't concentrate on generator calculations. After a while, his headset buzzed and one of the nurses called to remind him that it was time for afternoon PT. Rodney explained that there was a problem he had to deal with, apologized for canceling the appointment, and took the earpiece off.

If Carson found out, he'd give Rodney hell for that. He'd be right. Probably, he'd be spiteful and double the time on the horrible free weights. It wasn't fair--

But Carson had problems of his own. He might not find out. That wasn't fair either--Rodney stopped, unsure what he was angry at. Maybe everything. Maybe... just that he shouldn't have to deal with this now. On his best day, he wasn't wunderkind at being supportive. He shouldn't have to deal with something this huge and ugly now. It was too much. It wasn't fair.

When that door opened and Sheppard finally did come out, what was Rodney going to say?

Rodney tried rehearsing things. Everything sounded stupid in his head. There was nothing a person could *say* to make this better. Sheppard had fired on teenagers. And women. And people armed with pitchforks. Fuck.

He thought about calling Heitmeyer and having her join in the ambush, but hey, how desperate was that? Sheppard would not forgive him. He saw therapy as part of the problem, not part of the solution.

Maybe he could call Teyla for advice. But she had her own people to comfort.

It really, really sucked that Sheppard didn't swing both ways. Because sex was great for heartbreak and guilt, and Rodney could have made it really good, distracting sex. Another thing that wasn't fair.

Being out of the loop. That also sucked. He should have been there. He shouldn't have had to hunt people down and *ask*. Unfair. Unfair and wrong.

They should have called him. He should have been there when they brought Ronon through the gate. They had all been there for him. He should have been given the chance to be there for them. Of course, he wasn't sure *when* they might have called. They had been in the middle of a crisis. The last thing you needed in the middle of an ongoing disaster was one more frantic person in the control room.

One more frantic, useless person.

Currently less frantic, but probably still useless. What the hell was he going to say to Sheppard?

***

Martha beted. Some of you know how profoundly wonderful this is. I do. Kitty did the final check. I'm deeply thankful to both, as always.

Salt... is a little different, but if absolutely nobody likes it but them, well, it turns out I'm okay with that.

Next: Something At The End Of The Tunnel...