Balcony Sessions 3

Touch And Go

by Leah

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/asl/leah/balsess03.php
Summary: John tries to save Rodney, then has to save himself

John Sheppard aims his P90 at the Wraith, the one with its claws stuck in Rodney McKay's chest. John's figuring he maybe has ten seconds to aim, maybe fifteen, before Rodney starts dying and it'll be like watching Colonel Sumner buy it back on the Wraith ship. Before his only choice'll be whether to kill Rodney fast and mercifully or watch as the Wraith sucks the life out of him.

Rodney's stopped struggling. He's gasping, wild-eyed like an animal, standing stiff and terrified. The Wraith's got its free hand around Rodney's neck, pulling him up, forcing Rodney to stand on his toes so he can breathe. Rodney's hands are still clutching at the Wraith's wrist, as useless as a kid's next to that kind of strength.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

They'd gotten rid of Teyla's tracking necklace weeks ago, and the Wraith had stopped showing up at almost every planet they'd 'gated to. They'd been exploring, making the archeologists happy, meeting locals who actually wanted to trade.

That's what they were doing here, on this planet. Teyla had remembered coming here as a girl, listening to her dad talking to the locals about an object that glowed with its own light. Rodney was sure it was a ZPM, so they 'gated here to check it out. Just another flight on the Puddle Jumper, just another trip to a planet of big trees and high humidity. No big deal. He told Weir they'd be home by dinnertime, made some dumbass comment about Rodney. He can't even remember what he said, now.

Now, in about ten seconds, Rodney is going to start dying. Unless John shoots the Wraith first.

Maybe they'd gotten too complacent, after things going their way for so long. Hell, he doesn't even know where Aiden and Teyla are, though he's sure they're still in radio range. If he had time to call them.

He and Rodney had gone to check out some ruins the villagers had mentioned. He left Rodney for all of three minutes--*three minutes*-- to look at some kind of pillar thing, and then suddenly Rodney gave one single, horrified shout and John whirled around and now he has maybe ten seconds to make a shot to kill the Wraith without killing his friend.

His friend.

He didn't care about Sumner. Not in any real way, not more than he'd care about anybody he saw dying in agony. That had been as much about denying that Wraith bitch her meal as anything.

But this... this is *Rodney* who'll be dying in agony if he fucks up. And that's enough to set his hands shaking.

He stills them with an effort, adjusts his stance. He has to make this shot. That's all.

And he has to *kill* the Wraith, not just wound it, because if he doesn't, the thing'll just suck up Rodney's life that must faster to patch itself up. Like that bitch did to Sumner--took fifty years off the poor bastard right in front of John's eyes.

So. Headshot, John thinks, right through the skull. Blow the fucker's brains out. If that doesn't kill the Wraith outright, it should at least be enough to make it let go.

Except the Wraith is standing right in front of Rodney, face-to-face. John can only see part of Rodney's face, just one of his too-wide eyes. If John misses, then he's killed Rodney anyway. Even from this distance he'll blow a hole the size of a fist out the back of Rodney's head.

No problem, he thinks, because he doesn't have any choice about it. He just has to aim carefully, more carefully than for anything he's ever shot at in his entire misbegotten life. More carefully than he aimed for Sumner's heart, and he'd hit that dead on from a little farther than this.

He's got no choice, so he'll do it. Either he makes the shot or Rodney dies.

Time's up. Rodney's started screaming again. Maybe he's already lost days, maybe weeks...

No, John thinks. He aims and pulls the trigger.

Even as his finger moves--squeezing, not jerking, like his dad taught him--he hears gunfire from somewhere around his nine o'clock, off in the forest. Teyla and Aiden, coming in guns blazing.

The Wraith hears it too, and turns its head in the direction of the noise.

Just as John pulls the trigger. And the bullet goes right by the Wraith and into Rodney McKay's skull.

Rodney's body jerks with the impact, his head snapping back and to the side. The Wraith drops him and John sees him fall.

John stands there, frozen, his P90 still raised so he can sight along the barrel. He watches as Teyla and Aiden come running up firing, watches as the Wraith jumps and twitches with all the bullets hammering into him. He still watches as the Wraith finally falls backwards, toppling like a tree. Dead.

Dead, like Rodney.

"Major!" Teyla hollers at him. "Behind you!"

Even as John turns he's wondering if she, if Aiden, saw him kill Rodney. He's wondering if they'll think he did it on purpose, if he'd decided that Rodney was already beyond saving. He wonders if they'll think he figured Rodney wasn't worth trying to save.

It's hard to care about that, though. It's like his heart has stopped, been blown open like Rodney's head. He feels like he should have a fist-sized hole in his back, where the bullet punched its way out. But he can't feel any pain yet. He can't really feel anything.

Except... Except that he empties his entire magazine into the one Wraith that was trying to sneak up on him. Except that he keeps shooting even after the fucking thing is lying perforated on the ground, even after it's more than obvious it's dead. And he likes it: it feels just a little like revenge.

After that, he just... walks. Picks a direction and goes. Into the woods, since woods are surrounding them. He hears Aiden calling to him--Teyla too--but he ignores them both. They're not warning him about more Wraith, anyway.

They're telling him something about Rodney. But Rodney's dead.

He keeps walking. The woods are thick here, dark even during the bright light of day. Peaceful, if you don't look at the three Wraith bodies he has to step around. Aiden and Teyla work well together; he's glad he chose them for his team.

It looks like the Wraith were waiting in ambush, for Teyla and Aiden to come back from the village. He wonders what warned them before the Wraith attacked. Maybe it was Rodney's shout.

His brain kind of stutters over that, so he just keeps walking.

He doesn't go far. Only until he finds a tree big enough to lean one hand against while he quietly pukes into the underbrush. He keeps heaving until all he's throwing up is green bile.

Then he sags against the tree, his hand still pressed to the bark. It's solid under his palm, rough and damp like the forest's been through a heavy rain. It keeps him from falling, dropping to his knees. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then tilts his head so his temple is leaning against the tree, too. It's cold, and he can feel the rain-dampness against his skin.

He closes his eyes. His body shakes as he begins to cry, but the only sound he makes is his breathing.

"Major."

Teyla. John has no idea how long she's been there, though probably not long because she sounds like she's been running. He thinks dully that he's probably lucky she's not a Wraith. She doesn't come any closer to him, but he can feel her presence behind him like a weight, like she was already touching him.

"We need your help," she says right away. "Aiden is bringing the Puddle Jumper, but we need you to fly it back through the gate. We need to get Rodney back to Atlantis as soon as possible."

"Why?" John asks. He pulls his hand from the tree and swipes at his eyes, knowing it's useless, that she'll see the tears, and part of him still cares about that. He turns around, feeling almost angry. "Rodney's dead."

Teyla's eyes widen, then she shakes her head. "No," she says. "He's merely unconscious--Aiden says your bullet grazed his skull."

"We need to get him back to Atlantis," she repeats, because John is staring at her.

"He's alive," John says. Because he can't have heard that right. He saw him--

"Yes," Teyla says urgently. "But he may not remain so if we do not help him. Please, come now." She's already turning away, heading back to the clearing. She is a beautiful runner.

His heart hurts like there's a bullet in it, but it's a good kind of pain now--pain like hope. He follows her, as fast as he can.

***

"It's the hair, isn't it? Well, you can stop staring, all right? You-- you're making me feel like a geek."

Sheppard smiles that lazy smile of his. "Sorry," he says, obviously completely unrepentant. "I'd hate for you to feel like a geek because of your *hair*."

Rodney stares at him a moment, his fork halfway to his mouth. He has no idea whether the major was being sarcastic or not. It's infuriating. He remembers what he's doing a moment later and stuffs the fork into his mouth. It's meatloaf today, perfectly awful, but he's starving and it's better than not eating at all.

"Well, stop staring," he says around his mouthful of food. "It's not bleeding again or anything, is it?" It took forever for the wound to stop bleeding, even after Carson stitched it up. And it itched. It still itches. He just tries not to think about it. Or the fact that there's a large patch on the left side of his head that's been shaved to the skin, with an enormous gauze bandage over it.

"No." Sheppard smirks gently. "It's not bleeding." He takes another poke at his meatloaf, but doesn't actually eat any of it. He must not like the food much, either. Rodney wishes they were still serving MREs.

"Good," Rodney says. He eats some more, chewing and swallowing as fast as he can so he won't really taste any of it. When he looks up Sheppard is staring at his head again, right at the bandage.

Rodney blinks, puts his fork down so he can feel the side of his head. "It *is* bleeding, isn't it? It's started bleeding again and you just don't want to tell me."

"It's not," Sheppard insists. "Quit whining about it." He looks down at his plate, using his fork to plow little furrows into his mashed potatoes.

"I'm not whining," Rodney says, slightly affronted. "I just don't like the idea of blood dripping down the side of my head, okay? It's disgusting." He takes another mouthful.

"It's not bleeding," Sheppard repeats, looking up again. "And stop wolfing your food. You're going to choke to death."

"I'm hungry," Rodney says. "And who are you, anyway? My mother?" He takes a large mouthful and swallows it nearly whole, just to annoy Sheppard.

"No," Sheppard says, in his lilting voice that's definitely sarcastic, "but you already nearly died once this week, and I don't want to give you the Heimlich maneuver."

Rodney grins as he swallows. "Well, that makes two of us." And then he's the one who has to look down at his plate, because he can so easily imagine John standing behind him, John's arms wrapped around him, maybe John's chin resting on his shoulder.

And Rodney actually wouldn't mind that at all.

He takes another forkful of the mystery meat, to cover for anything that Sheppard might have seen in his face, and waits for Sheppard's reply.

When none comes he lifts his head again... And Sheppard's staring right at his bandage.

Rodney rolls his eyes. He points at Sheppard with his fork. "You're like Pavlov's dog," he says, then swallows. He drops his fork again, covering the bandage with his palm. "There, okay? It's gone. Nothing to see here, move along... Okay? You can stop inspecting your handiwork." He sighs, annoyed, before going back to the last of his lunch. As if he wasn't already feeling self-conscious--

"I gotta go," Sheppard says out of nowhere. He stands instantly, pushing his chair back. "See you later." He sounds like that would be a terrible chore.

Rodney sits, surprised, watching Sheppard all but run out of the mess hall. For a second he wants to chase after him, make sure he's okay. Rodney couldn't have possibly, well, hurt his feelings, could he? He's always saying things like that. Sheppard knows it. And nothing bothers the major anyway. The man's like Teflon.

And it's not that Rodney *blames* Sheppard for what happened. God knows he's fully aware that Sheppard was trying to save his life...

Rodney shrugs, finally, and goes back to eating. He pushes his tray aside and pulls Sheppard's uneaten meal to him. He's still hungry.

And it's probably nothing, anyway. Sheppard probably just realized he had to be somewhere--Rodney's the only one of the team who's got nothing to do until Carson declares him fit for exploration again.

That can't come soon enough, as far as Rodney's concerned. He wants to get back out there, find new technology, do the kind of things they brought him out here to do. He can't wait for things to return to normal, for... For Sheppard to stop staring at him.

Rodney shakes his head. Stabs his fork angrily into a chunk--*chunk*, ugh--of mashed potatoes. He misses Sheppard. He misses being with him, even the sarcasm and constant insults. He just... misses him. The occasional few moments between briefings or whatever, or abortive meals, just haven't been the same.

He misses Teyla and Aiden too, of course. But Sheppard's different. He's...

Well, he's just different. That's all. Rodney doesn't want to think about it.

***

Atlantis has public restrooms. It makes sense, really, given a city this size, but John's always found it kind of funny, anyway. It's so very *human*. So normal.

Now he's just glad he didn't have to try to make it all the way to his quarters to throw up. Even if it's only more bile. He can't actually remember the last time he's eaten more than half of anything, but he's feeling kind of sick, so it's probably been awhile.

Maybe he'll end up 'passing out from manly hunger.' Wouldn't Rodney love that.

It's just that he's been having trouble keeping food down. His stomach's tied up in knots all the time. He's having trouble sleeping, too.

He's so damn tired.

PTSD, probably. Which is also kind of funny, considering it was Rodney who almost died and the guy's just fine.

But Rodney's barely out of the infirmary and it's gotten so bad John can't even stand to be around him anymore. He keeps looking at that white bandage and all he can think about is Rodney's head snapping back, his body dropping to the ground. He didn't even hear the last thing Rodney said to him before he left the mess; hell, he can't even remember what he said to Rodney, if he even gave any kind of excuse. He just had to get out of there before he puked his guts out.

The toilet--which also looks remarkably normal, considering it was built a million years ago by aliens--flushes with a short wave of John's hand. It makes him smile a little.

The taps work the same way, too, and he spits and rinses until the cold water makes his mouth hurt. Then he leans his hands against the sink and looks in the mirror.

He really does look sick. He's pale, with dark rings under his eyes.

He wonders when people are going to start noticing.

"Get over it," he says to his reflection. "Just fucking get over it."

***

"You look like hell," Weir says to him without preamble a day later. "I'm not authorizing you for any missions until Carson's sent you go to Doctor Heightmeyer to sort this out."

John blinks at her. "I'm fine," he says. He deliberately uncrosses his arms, leans back in the chair, tries to look as cheerful as possible. He gives her his best, most beguiling smile. "I'm just a little off my game. That's all."

He can't let her keep him from flying. Flying makes him feel almost normal.

He's flown a mission a day since they got back from the planet--some to the Athosians on the mainland, bringing supplies and the like, some to map out the territory from the air, some to explore other parts of the planet. He's tried his damnedest to go alone, but sometimes he's been forced to take Teyla, or Aiden, or one of the Marines. He doesn't want anyone to get suspicious. He'd thought he was good enough company, able to keep up his end of the conversations. Laugh when someone says something that's meant to be funny.

Looks like he was wrong.

"That's bullshit and you know it," Weir says. John's mildly surprised at the language she's using. "I've had three people come to me in the last two days, telling me that you're not yourself--that you haven't been yourself since Rodney was nearly killed by the Wraith."

*Since I shot him*, John thinks. He figures two out of the three were Aiden and Teyla. He wonders if the last one was Rodney. Probably not.

He shrugs. "The mission didn't go so well." Which is as close as he wants to get to telling her what's bothering him, to telling anyone.

He still sees Rodney falling like someone dead every time he closes his eyes.

For a moment Weir looks at him like he's gone nuts, right there in her office. "I'd say that's an understatement," she says finally. "And the longer we sit here, the more certain I'm becoming that something's very wrong, Major." She takes a breath, her expression softening. "Look," she says, voice going gentle, "I know you're close to your team, it can't have been easy--"

"I shot him," John says. "I shot at the Wraith and missed and came within an inch of blowing Rodney's head off." He's calculated exactly how close he came--more times than he even he can count--but he doesn't feel like saying that. "Why don't you tell me how easy you think that was?"

Weir's eyes widen, then she gets herself back under her immaculate control. "Which is why I think you need to talk to someone, John," she says, as if he hadn't interrupted her. "Obviously this is bothering you a great deal, enough that your behavior is affecting others." She shakes her head while he stares at her. "I'm sorry. I can't allow any further missions until you've been cleared by the medical staff."

John licks his lips. His heart's hammering so hard it's painful. She's not going to let him fly. "I'm okay," he says. God, he hopes he really doesn't sound that desperate. "Things have been a little rough, lately. I admit it. But I'm dealing with it. I just...I just need some time."

"And you're getting it." Weir nods like it's been decided already, which it probably was, the second he walked through the door. "I can't afford to have any of my people operating in less than top condition," she says. "I'm sorry." This time her voice isn't gentle.

He tries to smile, but it's probably just a freakish stretching of his mouth. "You have to let me fly."

"I will," she answers immediately. "When Carson agrees that you're fit to do so." Her face hardens, just a little. "Right now Heightmeyer's your only option, Major."

He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath so he won't scream at her.

His only option. But he can't talk about it. He can't. He's already thinking about it all the time--Rodney almost dying, in an endless fucking loop in his head--and she wants him to *talk* about it, too?

No. There's no way. He couldn't stand it.

He feels sick again, a miserable, acid roiling in his gut. He can feel sweat at his temples, behind his ears and down his back, under his black shirt. He hopes she can't see it.

"Yes ma'am," he says, because he knows she hates the military formality. His voice doesn't even sound close to normal. He stands. "Permission to be dismissed, ma'am?" He's laying it on thick, now, but he doesn't care. He's too angry.

Weir looks up at him. "Get better," she says, like an order from her is what's going to do it.

He walks out without answering her.

***

He's barely cleared her office when he hears Rodney hollering after him.

John doesn't even slow down. He's heading towards the nearest balcony- -he has to get outside, breathe some uncanned air before he goes nuts. His skin feels itchy and tight, and he's got a headache coming on. If he doesn't get some sea air in his lungs he thinks he might explode.

Or go postal on someone. Possibly Rodney, who's run a few steps to catch up with him.

"Just the man I wanted to see," Rodney says, as if he can't tell John's trying very hard to ignore him. Maybe he *can't* tell-- Rodney's enough of a genius to be genuinely clueless sometimes. Rodney sounds cheerful as hell, and John can just imagine the goofily eager grin on his face. But he keeps his eyes straight ahead.

It's a little easier if John doesn't look at him.

"I'm busy," John barks. A total lie, but it's not like he cares.

"Really," Rodney says. "I had no idea lounging on the balcony was such a pressing concern--since that's where we're headed, isn't it? Look," he adds, not missing a beat, "this'll only take a few minutes. A half hour at most. Maybe an hour. But the balcony will still be there. This, on the other hand--"

He's heard this kind of preface enough times to know exactly what Rodney's talking about. "You've got the gene now," John snaps. "Do it yourself."

"I already tried," Rodney says. He's beginning to sound annoyed. Good, maybe he'll go away. "I can't seem to trigger the mechanism." And now that geeky happiness in his voice is back. "It really has the most unique design--"

"Ask Carson."

Rodney actually sniffs. "I'd rather not get blown up, thank you."

John grits his teeth, then stops walking and turns in one motion, halting Rodney with a hand on his chest. "Look," he snarls. "I don't feel like being your trained chimp today, all right? I'm not in the mood." He spits the words out through his clenched teeth. "Get. Someone. Else."

Rodney blinks. He even backs up a step. "Are you sick?" he asks.

"No." John whirls, starts walking again.

Rodney's caught up to him in two steps, damn him. "You don't look so good."

"I'm fine." They're almost at the balcony, thank god. John triggers the door with a thought and takes a grateful breath as soon as it slides open. A gust of wind hits him and he shivers.

Rodney keeps up with him right to the railing. He doesn't even glance at the view. "Then what the hell's your problem?" He sounds irritated. If only he'd leave.

John smirks humorlessly. He's sure that's going to become one of their favorite phrases. "Weir relieved me of duty, okay?" He looks away from Rodney, out over the water. He wipes his upper lip with his sleeve, then shivers again as the wind hits his chest. It's colder out here than he thought.

"She did?" Rodney looks confused. "She's a civilian--can she do that? Why?" he asks, before John can answer the first two questions.

"Apparently, some people think I've been off my game ever since the last Wraith attack." He forces himself to look at Rodney long enough to glare at him, in case Rodney really was one of the three who ratted John out. "She says I have to get the shrink's approval before I can go off-world again." Or fly. He tries not to think about that.

"Oh," Rodney says. His voice is surprisingly quiet. "I'm sorry." And god, he really sounds like he means it.

He puts his hand on John's shoulder. It's awkward and stiff, but his palm is solid and warm through the cloth of John's shirt, and John is still looking at Rodney's face, right at his blue eyes, and for a second he wants to tell Rodney exactly what's wrong, tell him everything...

He looks away again. "Yeah, well," John says. His voice is a little rough. "There you go."

For once, Rodney's silent. "Why?" he finally asks again.

*Because of you*, John thinks. *Because I thought you died and now I'm losing it*. "None of your goddamnn business," he says.

Of course Rodney ignores him. "Is it..." he hesitates. His hand on John's shoulder moves a bit. John stops himself from leaning into it. "Is it...because of what happened to me?"

John's sure Rodney can feel the shudder that goes through him, or maybe it's too deep inside. The sudden clench in his guts is almost enough to make him gag.

He has to swallow before he can speak. His mouth tastes sour. "Right," he says. "Because every fucking thing revolves around you."

Rodney snatches his hand back. John tries not to miss it.

"Well, forgive me for trying to be sympathetic," Rodney says, his voice taut. "I can see with that winning attitude you'll be considered fit for duty in no time."

"Guess you've been rubbing off on me," John says. He wipes his palm across his forehead, smearing sweat. Rodney sure as hell isn't making his headache better.

"Well, enjoy your *time off*, Major," Rodney sneers. He pushes away from the railing and turns away, stalking back inside. "Since you're obviously going to have a lot of it!" he calls over his shoulder.

John ignores him.

He takes a deep breath, trying to savor the quiet, the fresh air. Except he's got that damn headache now, and it's too freaking cold.

***

He hasn't accomplished anything all day.

Rodney has, however, been pacing a great deal. He supposes the exercise has to count for something.

Sheppard seems to have the talent to make him angry like no one else on Earth. Well, fine, no one else on Atlantis. Or in the Pegasus Galaxy, if you want to be really specific, though Bates and Kavanagh have been serious contenders more than once.

This isn't anger, though, what he's feeling. Not really, anyway. This is... What?

Whatever it is, it's made a morass of his insides so bad that he grabbed a protein bar for dinner, rather than having to face what passed for food in the mess hall. And even that's currently an acid- soaked lump in his stomach.

What happened to him has nothing to do with Sheppard's being forced into counseling. He knows that. It's not like Sheppard was purposely shooting at him.

And Sheppard even confirmed that for him, anyway. Rodney nearly getting killed--twice, mind you--has no bearing whatsoever on whatever's troubling him. Well, Sheppard didn't exactly *say* that, no. Not in so many words, but he still managed to make it more than clear enough.

The worst part is, that's what Rodney's upset about: precisely the fact that what's bothering Sheppard has nothing to do with him.

They're meant to be friends, right? Didn't Sheppard tell him that at the party a few weeks ago? That he considered Rodney a friend? Well, apparently in Sheppard's world that means you can nearly put a bullet through someone's skull and end up a basket case about something else entirely. Whatever that happens to be.

It's truly idiotic of him to be miserable about that, that he's not the catalyst for Sheppard's problem. Cruel, even, in a way. Rodney knows this. He also knows that it's beyond stupid for him to even wish he might matter that much.

He should know better, that's all. He should damn well know better.

Rodney huffs out a sigh, scrubbing his fingers through the hair on the back of his head. The heel of his palm brushes against his bandage and he grimaces. He turns at the end of his worktable and starts back the other way again.

Maybe Sheppard's just a little freaked out by the whole idea of being attacked by the Wraith again, especially the way it happened this time. Maybe he's just feeling vulnerable. That even makes a little bit of sense.

Not that Sheppard makes much sense to Rodney at the best of times.

But the really, *really* worst part, is that now he's worried.

And Rodney really, really doesn't like worrying. In the past two years, whenever he's been worried about something it's because it's been literally life-or-death: like the world blowing up, or a city about to be flooded, or six people trapped half-in, half-out of an event horizon with two minutes before they all die.

Or like John Sheppard, lying on the floor of the Jumper bay, being electrocuted once, twice, and his heart still not beating.

Rodney stops pacing abruptly, puts his palms flat on the table. He leans heavily on his arms. His stomach hurts. He hates this.

"Damn you, John Sheppard," he grits out. He's not even sure what he says it for, but it makes him feel a little better, anyway.

Then he straightens up and leaves his lab and all the work he should be doing. He's heading to Sheppard's quarters.

He doesn't even know what he's going to say.

***

The door's locked tight, no sliver of light coming from the tiny gap above the floor. It's not that late--maybe Sheppard's not even there.

Maybe he's talking to Heightmeyer. Rodney realizes he hadn't even considered that Sheppard might actually do that. Rodney likes her well enough, but the idea of going to someone he actually *knows* for... counseling, or whatever the PC word is, is so anathema to him that he can't imagine Sheppard not feeling the same. He wonders if that's something they'd actually have in common, or if he's just projecting his miserable little view of the universe onto Sheppard because...

Well, don't you always want the people you care about to be more like you?

Rodney doesn't even try to feel guilty as he uses his artificial gene to mentally open Sheppard's door. If the major is sleeping, hopefully he won't wake up and Rodney can just leave. If he *does* wake up, well, at least Rodney can find out, well, whatever it is to came here for. That Sheppard's okay? But Sheppard's not okay--that's already been made painfully obvious.

There's really no good reason, Rodney realizes, for him to be there at all.

He wants that to stop him, he really does, but the door slides open like temptation, and then it's far too late because the crisp light from the corridor floods into Sheppard's room.

Sheppard is asleep--or at least, he was, considering how bright it is in his room now. Rodney winces, belatedly wishing he'd thought of that.

The major doesn't move, though. He's an almost indistinguishable lump under what looks like almost every blanket in the city, with only ridiculous tufts of his perpetually messy hair sticking out from beneath the covers. Rodney inhales, and realizes the room smells like sweat.

"Close the door," Sheppard mumbles. "S'cold. 'M trying to sleep."

"You *are* sick!" Rodney goes to the bed, leaving the door open behind him to get some fresh air in the room. He crouches down so his head is at the same level as Sheppard's. Sheppard pulls the covers down enough so that his dark eyes peep out like a wary animal from its burrow. They're heavy-lidded and watery from sleep.

"Don't shout," Sheppard whispers. "Hurts my head." His voice is raspy and it sounds like his breathing is labored, though god knows that could be because of the weight of all those blankets.

Rodney puts his hand on Sheppard's forehead. His hair is damp with sweat, and his skin is astonishingly hot against Rodney's palm. "We've got to get you to the doctor," he says. His voice is hushed, but it's only partly for Sheppard. The rest is a kind of terrified awe.

"No." Sheppard tries to roll away from him, but stops with an exhausted groan. "I can't talk to her. I don't want--" Trying to string two sentences together seems to have sapped his strength, and his eyes slide shut. He just lies there panting. "God," he whispers, "it hurts."

"It's okay," Rodney says automatically. "Don't try to talk." He stands, turns and hits the intercom near Sheppard's door, then makes a fist because his hand is shaking. "Medical emergency in Sheppard's quarters," he barks into it. His voice is harsh and loud and he lowers it for the sake of the man breathing raggedly behind him. "The major's extremely ill," he adds. He doesn't recognize the voice of the woman who answers him, but all he cares about is that she says there'll be a medical team there shortly.

He palms the comm off and goes back to Sheppard, kneeling this time so his legs won't hurt. He yanks away the top four--no, five--covers, dumping them on the floor at the foot of the bed. The waft of heat that puffs up from Sheppard's body is amazing.

"Fuck off, Mitch, I'm *cold*," Sheppard mutters. "Don't..." He pants out hot air, then tries to burrow under the one remaining blanket.

"You have a fever," Rodney says, wondering who Sheppard thinks he's talking to. "You need to cool down." He grabs the last blanket, but settles for just pulling it off Sheppard's face. At least that way the man can breathe. Sheppard's face looks like milk. Like there's no blood in his body at all.

"Rodney?" Sheppard rasps at him. It looks like he's fighting to get his eyes open.

"It's okay," Rodney says. "Don't talk. The medics will be here soon."

Sheppard just goes on like Rodney hasn't said anything. Maybe Sheppard can't even hear him; Rodney has no idea. "Rodney. You know I... didn't try to shoot you. Right?" He stops to breathe every few words: rapid, huffing breaths that sound like he's not getting any oxygen at all.

"What?" For a second Rodney doesn't even know what the hell Sheppard's talking about. He's lying half-dead in a sauna of his own perspiration and he's worried about Rodney? Then he remembers, but the idea is too moronic for him to even consider. And he'd tell Sheppard that, if the major was even slightly more coherent.

"Of course I know that," he says. He's still trying to keep his voice low, and he hopes that Sheppard can hear him, and that he's not too addled with sickness to understand. "You were trying to save my life. I'm... grateful for that. I never thought you were trying to hurt me."

And he is grateful. It suddenly occurs to him that he never bothered to let Sheppard know.

"S'good," Sheppard whispers. His hand snakes out from the blanket, groping blindly, and Rodney instinctively takes it. The palm is clammy with sweat. "When it got you..."

"Shh," Rodney says. "Save your strength."

"It was like Sumner." Sheppard says. His voice sounds like wet sand. "I couldn't..." He takes a few breaths. "Couldn't. Not you."

"It's all right," Rodney says. "I understand." Actually, he has no idea what Sheppard's talking about. But Sheppard's fading fast, and Rodney has the sudden, terrible thought that this might be the last time he ever gets to speak to him.

He's sure that's not true, though. Really, he is. He's just not used to being around incredibly sick people, and he's prone to overreaction. It's one of his things.

Sheppard can't possibly be dying.

Sheppard forces his eyes open a millimeter. "I like you more than I should."

Rodney blinks. He has absolutely no idea what that means, either. Sheppard's already delirious. The poor man has no idea what he's saying.

Rodney puts his other hand on Sheppard's forehead. It might be hotter, maybe.

"I, ah, like you too," Rodney says. He hopes it's the right answer.

It is, because Sheppard's bloodless lips curve up in a hint of a smile. "Cool," he rasps.

What little grip he had on Rodney's hand is loosening, and Sheppard's eyes shut again.

"Sheppard?" Rodney says, alarmed. He's not dying, is he? This isn't *it?* "John? John!"

"Should've danced with you..." Sheppard sighs out a tiny puff of air.

Rodney stands up, ignoring his sore knees. "John!"

He's just about to shake him when the medical team rushes in.

***

Everything hurts. His joints, his muscles ache. Moving is slow, grinding agony. And he's so cold. The base thermostat must be broken; he can't get warm. All he can smell is his own sweat, and when he licks his lips he can taste it.

He's so weak, too weak to do anything. And he's in so much pain.

He keeps begging Ford to kill the damn bug already, get it off his neck. It doesn't matter what happens--he's dying anyway. He just doesn't want to die like this, helpless and hurting like this. Just shoot it, he tells him. Use your knife, use anything. But Ford won't. He won't help him. He just

Keeps going down the steps, to where the gate is, walking into the black entity. John's calling to him, trying to get McKay to get out, to come back because the shield won't work, but McKay won't and now all John can see is the pathetic green flicker of the shield just before it goes out and a second later McKay disappears completely and John knows that he's dying, burning to death, that he

Hears Ford in the corridor, with Stackhouse, trying desperately to get out of the way before the entity hits them. McKay's telling Ford how to get the door open, but it's not working, Ford can't get it to work, and then Ford says that the entity is *right there* and then they're just screaming

At Teyla to get out of the way, damn it, he's trying to shoot the Wraith attacking her. But she can't hear him or she won't listen, and she just keeps fighting with a will and strength that awes and amazes and frightens him, because she's fighting so hard but there's no way she can win and then she's on the ground and the Wraith is hovering over her and John's trying to shoot but he can't shoot and he

Has less than ten seconds before Rodney dies. But he knows if he shoots the bullet will hit Rodney and kill him, but if he doesn't shoot then the Wraith will kill Rodney anyway, so he's standing there and he doesn't know what to do, and there's nothing he *can* do and Rodney's going to die and he can't do anything

Except beg, and shout, and command, and scream, and fight, as hard and as much as he can with a body that's weak and aching and so cold and betraying him. And he keeps telling them to stop hurting him, to let him go, that he has to get to his team, that they're all dying and he has to help them...

But nobody listens to him. Nobody ever listens.

***

"I don't understand," Rodney says, though he does; he just doesn't believe it. "Sheppard caught this thing from a *tree*."

Carson nods. He hasn't slept and looks haggard--his chin is covered with stubble and his eyes have heavy shadows under them. Well, one of them. The other one is swollen shut where Sheppard managed to clock him sometime during the night.

Rodney doesn't know when Carson got his shiner, exactly. The night's pretty much just a long, anxious blur in his head. He remembers Sheppard shouting a lot, or screaming.

Rodney knows Carson hasn't slept because he hasn't, either. Not since following the medical team down here. He only left the infirmary when Carson threatened to sedate him if he didn't get out of the way.

So he spent most of the night pacing in the corridor, listening to Sheppard cry out and fight the medical staff in his delirium. His feet hurt and he's starving--he'll have to eat soon or he'll get sick himself, and he doesn't want to take anyone's time away from Sheppard.

Carson gestures at Teyla, though he's looking at Rodney. "The tree is the most likely culprit. The major is the only one who actually touched anything in the forest, correct?"

Teyla glances at Aiden, who nods, then she nods at Carson. Everyone's being very quiet and grave. Rodney wants to pace some more, maybe do a bit of shouting. Smashing something might be nice.

Nobody has to ask him if he touched anything in the forest, of course, since he was unconscious in the grass at the time.

"He was leaning against one of the trees, when I came upon him. His hand was touching the bark." Teyla hesitates, glances at Rodney. He just blinks at her. "He... wiped his face afterwards, and his eyes. With the same hand."

Yuck, Rodney thinks. Figures the major wouldn't care about touching strange plants, getting god knows what on his hands. Of course, the idea of Sheppard going off tree-hugging while he was lying on the ground is a little perplexing, to say the least.

"The bacteria probably got into him that way," Carson says, "when he touched his face. Through the mucus membranes."

"Are we going to have an epidemic on our hands, Doctor?" Elizabeth asks. Her voice has that particular pitch it gets when she's stressed, and she glances over her shoulder at Sheppard, with an expression caught somewhere between concern and anger.

Sheppard, who is currently shifting restlessly on one of the cots, with bad morning stubble and looking as pale as the white sheet pulled up to his chest, and the horrible, white tie-in-the back hospital gown they've got on him. He's got cannula under his nose, like Rodney only thought they did in the movies, and there's an IV line in each arm. Actually, he looks a little like a Borg, with the air hose, and all the IV lines attached to him.

Rodney doesn't know if he's finally stopped fighting everyone because of the illness or the meds or what, but somehow this relative tranquility is almost worse. It's not supposed to be like this--for him to be so sick and quiet, with people talking about him as if he's not even in the room.

"No." Carson sounds just as relieved as everyone else looks. "The bacterium can't survive outside of a host. It needs direct transmission. It's likely the major wouldn't have been infected at all, if he hadn't been in direct contact with it."

Rodney touches the bandage on his head. He's suddenly very happy he didn't get shot in the woods.

"Well, that's something at least," Elizabeth says, sounding like it's not much of anything at all. She looks over at Sheppard again, not that he's moved. Her mouth presses into an unpleasant line. "What's his prognosis?"

Rodney steps forward a bit.

Carson lets out a breath and runs his fingers through his short hair. "At the moment, I'm afraid it's touch and go. I'm most worried about his fever--We've only just managed to get it under control, and it's still nearly forty-point-five degrees." His accent is thick with his fatigue, but far worse is the note of defeat in it.

"About 105 degrees Fahrenheit," Rodney says automatically.

"Thank you," Elizabeth nods.

Rodney whips his head around, looking at Carson. "Wait," he says, "*Forty-point-five?* And that's 'under *control?*'" He takes another step forward, closer to the doctor. "How high did it get?"

Carson hesitates. He glances at Elizabeth, as if he needs her permission to speak. For a second Rodney thinks about shaking him.

"Forty-one," Carson says quietly. "Slightly over. But not for very long."

"Jesus Christ," Rodney breathes. He turns away, walks a few steps. "That's 106 degrees," he says to Elizabeth and the others, "in case you were wondering." He gives a sharp, incredulous laugh. "He's dead, isn't he?" He turns around again, thrusting a hand out to point at the body on the bed. He's suddenly feeling an astonishing amount of rage. And fear so sharp it hurts. "He's a fucking vegetable, isn't he? You goddamn let his brain boil--"

"Rodney!" Elizabeth admonishes him.

"We are doing *everything* we can, Rodney!" Carson says. His voice is just below a shout, and for a moment his blue eyes snap like lightning. He takes a breath. "Yes, neurological and organ damage is a concern. But as I said," and he glares, "his temperature wasn't that high for that long. Most likely there'll be no lasting ill effects."

"'Most likely,'" Rodney snorts. "You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Rodney..." Elizabeth says again. This time her voice has an edge that definitely means he's crossed a line.

"Sorry," Rodney mutters. He forces himself to relax, though that's pretty much impossible. He's still sure that when he looks at Carson there's nothing but accusation in his eyes. "I'm just a little concerned here."

"As are we all," Teyla says, in that grating diplomat's voice of hers. But she's standing next to Aiden, as if she could get some comfort from the young man's proximity, and she's got her arms crossed over her chest like she's barely keeping herself together. Just like Rodney feels. "I do not understand your means of measuring temperature, but it is obvious that Sheppard's condition is grave." She drops her arms to her sides, as if she's steeling herself. "Is McKay correct? Is the major dying?"

Aiden looks at Teyla, his brown eyes big and scared. He reminds Rodney uncomfortably of a lost puppy, twisting one of his ubiquitous hats in his hands.

"That's not true, right?" Aiden asks Carson. "I mean, we're all scared, but... His fever's gonna come down, and he'll be okay..." He looks so desperate for Carson to tell them he's right.

The look Carson gives Aiden can only be described as pitying. Rodney has to turn away--he can't stand it--but his eyes settle on Sheppard again, and that's almost worse.

"The major is a very sick man, son," Carson says. "He's on the strongest antibiotics we have, but as yet they haven't made a dent against the pathogen. His temperature is steady for the moment, but it's still dangerously high. And we don't know for sure if the antipyretics--the anti-fever medication," he adds for Aiden and Teyla, "will continue working. If his temperature increases again we may not be able to bring it down."

The last part he says looking directly at Rodney, as if his honesty were meant to be some kind of justification for the fact that they're barely helping Sheppard at all.

"We're doing all we can," Carson says again. Rodney wonders who the hell he's repeating it for. "But we need to prepare for the possibility that he won't survive."

And that's it. Rodney's jaw works, but there's nothing to say. He's sure his eyes are boring into Carson's like acid, but the doctor's expression is only stoic with his own helplessness as he stares back at him.

"I'm sorry," Carson says.

Rodney walks out of the infirmary before he takes a swing at him.

***

He thinks he has no clue where he's going, until he's suddenly outside Sheppard's quarters. He doesn't even hesitate before he opens the door.

The room's exactly the same as he left it, in the rush of medics and alarm. The air still has a tinge of sweat; there's the pile of Sheppard's blankets on the floor.

It looks so horribly unfinished and empty.

Rodney sits on the bed and puts his head in his hands. Sheppard is never coming back here, to put the too-many blankets into the laundry and change his sheets. Someone else will have to pack up his things, his few effects. They'll be stored somewhere, in boxes. The room will be left empty.

Because John will be dead.

*Because John will be dead*. Rodney keeps trying to accept that, trying to make it work in his head. Major John Sheppard is going to die.

Rodney is not an optimistic person by nature, but he can't do this. He can't sit here in John's quarters and imagine John never being there again, never being on Atlantis, anywhere, ever again. It's like his mind won't even accept the possibility.

He can't do it. It's like trying to imagine the sun going out.

Rodney makes a noise that might be a laugh. Now he's comparing John to the sun.

"Hey."

Rodney looks up, startled. For a second he actually thought it was John in the doorway. But it's Aiden, with Teyla standing just behind him.

"Figured we'd find you here," Aiden says, and he even smiles.

His first thought is to answer with something sarcastic and biting, maybe even cruel. He can do that--fight his teammates away with words, armor himself with them. He doesn't want to have to deal with their fear, their first inklings of the grief he can't even begin to fathom.

But he doesn't do it. He spreads one hand in greeting, then drops both hands to his thighs and looks down at them.

"He will not die," Teyla says. Rodney glances up at her. Her face is placid with conviction. "His spirit is too strong. He will not succumb to this illness."

"She's right," Aiden says, nodding vigorously. He grins, though it doesn't get near his eyes. "He's way too stubborn for a fever to take him out."

Rodney wants to tell them how stupid they are, how naïve, that denying what's happening won't change anything. But he looks at them both, and he can't say it, he just can't.

"Of course he is," he says. It doesn't even sound like it's him talking.

"Yeah," Aiden says. "You'll see." He nods again, his head bobbing like a child.

Teyla takes a step into the room, inhales. "It is rank in here," she says.

"I was going to take the blankets and sheets to the laundry," Rodney says. He wasn't, actually, but it's a plausible reason for him to be there. It occurs to him that maybe he should wonder why Teyla and Aiden knew exactly where he was, but he finds he doesn't have the energy for it.

When he stands the room sways unpleasantly. Teyla grabs him before he topples over.

"McKay?" Aiden's on his other side, helping him sit down heavily on the edge of the bed. An entire world of horror is in the way the young man says his name.

"I'm not sick," Rodney says quickly. "It's just low blood sugar--I need to eat."

Teyla backs off a step so she can look at him. Her eyes are wary and concerned. "You are certain?"

"Of course I'm certain," he snaps. "This happens a lot, okay? I haven't eaten for thirteen hours."

His tone seems to convince her, as much as anything. "Stay here," she says. "I will bring you food."

"Thank you," he says, surprised. She nods and gives him a tiny smile before she leaves.

Then it's just Rodney and Aiden.

"You sure you're all right?" Aiden asks him. "I could get the doc--"

"No!" Rodney softens his voice when Aiden blinks at him, startled. "I'm fine," he says. "Honestly."

"Okay." Aiden backs off, standing. He rubs the back of his neck, looking around the room. "Guess I'll take the blankets to the laundry."

"Sure," Rodney nods, then watches as Aiden goes to the end of the bed and quickly scoops all the blankets off the floor. He should probably help, but he's dizzy enough that he doesn't want to try standing again.

My friends, Rodney thinks. He had no idea that it would mean so much-- the fact that Teyla's going to get him breakfast, that Aiden was worried about him. He never even expected it. He's not even sure it's something he deserves.

He wonders, suddenly, if John has any idea how much they're all worried about him.

How much Rodney is worried about him. About losing him.

Aiden straightens up, carrying the six blankets in a crumpled pile. Six blankets. Rodney doesn't know where John would have even gotten them all from. He must have felt so terribly cold.

And all the while he was actually burning inside, pressure-cooking his internal organs with his own body heat. So sick his brain's thermostat didn't know which way was up anymore, so he buried himself under blankets, adding to the already intolerable temperature...

"And what the hell was he doing in the forest anyway, for Christ's sake?" Rodney explodes.

Aiden's nearly at the door, but he whirls, shocked, his arms full of the damp blankets.

"Can you tell me that? What the major thought was so incredibly important that he walked away from... From a fight to go commune with nature?" From me, he thinks, but he won't say it. He may be shouting at poor Aiden for nothing, but he's not a child and he's not an idiot, so he won't say *that*. "Did he have to take a piss, or something?"

Aiden's looking at him steadily over the pile of blankets in his arms. He licks his lips. "He thought you were dead," he says.

Rodney stops, mouth open. "What?"

"He thought you were dead," Aiden repeats, nodding. He shrugs, and the blankets shift precariously in his arms. "He saw you fall when the bullet hit, but he didn't know it just clipped you, not until later. He thought you died."

Rodney stares at Aiden, blinking. "He really thought I was dead?"

"Yeah," Aiden nods again. "He thought he'd killed you. That's why he left. I guess... I guess he didn't want to see it. Your body, I mean."

"My body..." Rodney gives his head a tiny shake, then looks back at Aiden. "I didn't know." He's stunned, almost whispering.

"We probably should've told you," Aiden says. "But we kind of forgot. We were more worried about getting you back..."

"It's okay," Rodney says. He waves a hand absently, thinking.

He doesn't even notice when Aiden leaves.

***

He's standing in the middle of Carson's infirmary. He doesn't remember how he got here.

The last thing John really remembers is crawling into bed, feeling like total crap. He'd finally realized he was coming down with something on the balcony when the dizziness started, but he had never expected it to take him out so fast. By the time he made it back to his room he could barely walk straight, and his entire body was aching.

He's in his uniform, jacket and all, which is a little weird, considering he remembers taking off everything but his pants before lying down.

He also remembers Rodney coming into his quarters, and talking to him about something, but John doesn't remember what. And then, just... nothing.

He doesn't know what time it is, though it feels late. Or that might just be the deep quiet in the room. He wonders where everyone is; it'd be nice to have someone to tell him what's going on.

He looks around, taking in the empty beds, the shelves and the mix of Ancient and Earth technology. All he can hear is the quiet hiss of the cycling air. It's kind of eerie, actually. He thinks maybe he should just leave...

Doctor Beckett comes in, walking fast. He looks like he could use a few hours of sleep, John thinks. He hopes no one's been badly hurt or anything.

"Hey, Doc," he says, stepping forward. "Can--"

Carson walks right through him. It feels a little tingly.

John whirls around, stunned and frightened. Carson just keeps on going.

--Right up to the bed with John lying on it, pale as milk and hooked up to so many tubes he looks a little bit like a Borg.

"No way. No fucking *way*." John sucks in a few very quick breaths. He--his *body*, for fuck's sake, over there--looks really sick. His head keeps tossing, with his lips moving like he thinks he's talking, but if he's actually speaking John can't hear it. He's sweating a lot, his hair's all spiky wet with it. John's close enough so he can see it from where he's standing.

But John feels fine. He's fine. He's just standing about five feet from his very own body...

He turns around the other way, deciding he really can't stand looking at himself like that. This is just some stupid, crazy dream he's having. It has to be--

Colonel Sumner is standing right in front of him. Close enough to touch, if John extends his arm.

John gives a very un-adult, very un-military yelp and leaps backward, just in time to have Carson walk through him again as he leaves the room. Carson looks upset, John notes dully, just before the doctor walks through Sumner, too.

"This isn't real," John says. "This can't be real. I'm on that fog planet and imagining all this, aren't I? You--you're just some part of this fantasy world I'm in." god damn it, Rodney was right. The aliens *did* pull a double whammy on them. "You'd better let us go," he says. "I told you our friends are gonna come--"

'Sumner' just looks at him. "You really are an asshole, Sheppard."

"What?" John blinks. "Hey!"

Sumner put a hand out, stopping him. "This isn't a fantasy, Sheppard. You're not on any planet." He gives a single, sharp nod of his chin over John's shoulder. "That's you, right there."

John looks over his shoulder, at the white and sweating version of himself on the bed. It--he--seems to have nothing at all to do with him.

He turns back to Sumner. "What's happening? Why are you here?"

Sumner shrugs. "It's your head." He cranes his neck a bit, peering over John's shoulder. "You really don't look so good."

John thinks about that for a moment. "I'm dying," he says. He finds it a little odd that the idea neither surprises nor frightens him.

Sumner sniffs, then nods. "Yeah, like I said. You're an asshole."

"Screw you!" John says. "If you're here to take me across, or whatever the hell it is, fine. But I don't need your opinion."

"I'm not taking you anywhere," Sumner says. "Don't you get it? This is all in your *head*, Sheppard--I'm not even here."

"Even better," John snaps. "Then fuck off and leave me alone."

"What," Sumner smirks nastily, reminding John a little of Rodney. "So you can die in peace? I don't think it's working like that."

"I thought this was all in my head."

"Sure," Sumner says. He grins coldly. "So I guess that means you want me here."

John closes his eyes in frustration. "Great."

He opens them again when Sumner bumps him with his shoulder as he walks by, going to stand next to John's (the real, dying John, apparently) bed.

"You really look like crap," Sumner says conversationally. He turns his head to look at John (the standing one, who feels fine). "Why are you so eager to kick off, anyway?"

"I'm not!" John says. He doesn't turn around, since he has absolutely no interest in looking at his body. "I don't want to die. It's just... There it is. If you can't change it, you can't change it. Why fight?"

"Well, that's the thing, Shep." Sumner moves so he's facing John again. "This sickness wouldn't be killing you if you'd fight it. But you're not. You're not even trying. You're just letting yourself waste away in a pool of your own sweat." He grimaces, glancing back at John's body. "That's a hell of a way to die, by the way."

"Better than getting the life sucked out of you," John shoots back.

"'Not so sure," Sumner says, still looking at the John on the bed. "Never liked the idea of expiring in one of those dumbass hospital gowns... Besides," and he's looking at John again, "I *didn't* die like that, did I? You shot me first."

John has to look away. He's dead, he reminds himself fiercely. He's dead and he's not even here. This isn't happening. Somehow, it doesn't help.

He thinks of Rodney. Being shot. Falling. He can't stop it.

"Yeah," he says huskily. "I'm good at that."

"Huh," Sumner grunts. "That's interesting. You don't feel guilty, do you?"

"Of course not!" John glowers at Sumner. "I didn't fucking aim at him! I would've hit the Wraith if it hadn't moved!"

"And yet." Sumner raises his eyebrows. "Here we are."

"What?" John snarls at him. "You think I want to die because of Rodney? Because of what happened?"

"No," Sumner says blandly. "I'm not even here, remember? But yeah, now that you mention it, I think Rodney is *exactly* the reason you want to die."

"I don't want to die!" John shouts! "I just--!" He cuts himself off, looks away again.

"I'm in your head, Shep," Sumner says, strangely gently. "You can't hide from yourself."

"I've lost friends before," John says. "This isn't about that."

"Come on." Sumner makes a face. "Dex and Mitch? You didn't even *like* them. That was convenience and proximity, and a way to not have to worry about your crush on the base commander."

John gapes at him. "No! I--"

"Don't even try." Sumner shakes his head, then taps his temple. "This is all you, Shep. All you."

John looks at him for a beat. "Shit," he says. He turns around, rubbing his mouth with his hand. He feels far more real than the sweating lump in the bed.

He's aware of Sumner--his hallucination of Sumner--standing behind him. Sumner puts his hand on his shoulder.

"This isn't a game, here, Sheppard," Sumner says. "This is moment-of- truth stuff. Life or death. For real. Either you decide you're going to live, or you won't. Your temperature will skyrocket and your brain will fry and you'll be dead by lunchtime. You'll never see anyone you care about ever again." Sumner shakes John's shoulders a bit, making John look at him. "Not ever. Is that what you really want?"

John looks back at him stonily. "It's better than the alternative."

"You mean watching them die, instead of you. Watching *Rodney* die, instead of you," Sumner says. It's not a question.

"Yeah," John says.

Sumner considers him for a moment. "I didn't know you flyboys were such pussies."

John shrugs Sumner's hand off his shoulder. "You're not real, you don't know anything."

Sumner smiles faintly. "So, I guess you're the one calling yourself a chickenshit."

"I'm not a coward!"

Sumner shrugs. "I don't care, Shep. I don't even exist outside your head. You're the one taking the easy way out. You're the one who'd rather die than face the idea of the man you're falling in love with maybe dying first."

John gasps. It feels like his heart clenches up, like he really is dying, and he can't help but look at the John on the bed.

But nothing there's changed. It's just him. Just this part of him.

"You always knew," Sumner says, still standing next to him. "You just didn't admit it. You never admit it."

"I..." John feels weak, speechless. He wonders if this is what dying really feels like, if he's--his real self--is actually sliding over the edge. It's kind of like when the bug was attached to his neck: the same kind of numbness but without any pain.

"I don't want him to die," he says at last, because it's the only thing he can say. "I couldn't take it."

Sumner nods. "Well," he says, "how do you think he feels about you?"

"I don't know," John says softly. "I don't know how he feels."

"And you won't, either."

"What?"

Sumner's face is impassive. "You're dying," is all he says.

***

Aiden and Teyla wanted to go visit John. Carson said it was okay, but Elizabeth was already there, so they had to wait. They can't visit for very long, anyway--John needs his temperature taken every fifteen minutes, and Carson doesn't want extra people around in case John's condition worsens.

Elizabeth left just a few minutes ago, walking quickly. Rodney avoided her eyes.

Now Rodney's in the hallway with Teyla, not listening, though he can't help wondering what Aiden's talking about. He truly doubts John can hear him, anyway, despite what they say about people in comas. You have to be at home to answer the doorbell, don't you? At least that's the only thing that's ever made sense to him.

When his mother was in a coma in hospital, dying after a stroke, he never went to see her. Of course there were a myriad of reasons for that. But his certainty that she would never have even known was the paramount one.

Rodney has never believed in willfully wasting his time.

And yet, here he is, in the corridor outside the infirmary, waiting for Teyla and Aiden to finish so he can have his turn. He's certain that it's useless, meaningless, that John is too far gone for any of it to matter. But he still can't make himself leave.

Aiden comes out, putting his cap back on. He smiles at them, but his eyes are bleak and very old.

Teyla asks him if he wants to go before her, but Rodney politely refuses. So he waits some more, leaning against the wall. His feet are killing him.

It seems to take no time at all before Teyla leaves, and when Rodney sees her face he wonders if she just couldn't bear it.

"He is strong," she says, and Rodney nods. But he knows they're just words to her now, and when she looks at him she knows he knows it, too.

For the first time, Rodney wonders what happened to her parents; she only ever talks about her father, and that only in the past tense. He wonders how long she's been alone.

It seems like a very long walk to get to the side of John's bed. Carson's thoughtfully put a chair next to John's head, and Rodney sits gratefully.

John looks like he's dying. That's the only thing Rodney can think of. His face is almost translucent, like the deadly heat in his body is burning right through his skin. He's soaking with his own sweat. Rodney's sure he would have died already just from dehydration, if he weren't in the infirmary. He's so hot. Rodney can feel it where he's sitting, like being next to a fire.

John's eyes are moving sightlessly, back and forth under the half- closed lids, and his mouth seems to be forming words though Rodney can't hear him speaking. Once in awhile John moves, restlessly, with a kind of languid urgency that Rodney knows comes from his exhaustion.

No wonder he's dying, Rodney thinks. He can't rest like this; his own body won't let him.

"Hi, Sheppard," he says. He feels incredibly awkward and stupid, talking to someone who's so obviously not listening--not able to listen.

He licks his lips, his left hand drumming nervously against his thigh. "I, ah..." He sighs. "I don't know what to say," Rodney confesses finally. "I'm certain you can't hear me, and I have to tell you I'm not even sure it would make a difference if you could." He rubs the back of his head, feeling the bandage again.

He brings his hand down slowly, remembering what Aiden said. "I didn't know that you thought I died, back there," he says. "That must have been... difficult, thinking that what you tried to do to save me actually ended my life." He swallows. "But you should know, that even... even if you had killed me, it would have been better than the Wraith. I only know what you said in the briefing, about how Colonel Sumner died, but I was there when that... hellish bug was sucking the life out of you. A nice, quick bullet to the brain would have been infinitely preferable to that."

He gives a tiny, uncomfortable laugh. "Well, that was morbid." But then he looks at John's slack and pained features, and thinks that perhaps morbidity isn't so out of place right now. "It occurs to me that a bullet might be preferable to what you're going through now, too," he says, then closes his eyes. "Jesus," he says. "I can't believe I said that. I'm sorry."

"I'm not very good at this," Rodney says when he opens his eyes again. John is oblivious, enduring his fever dreams. "But... You can't die, okay? That's it. You just can't." He takes a breath, wondering why he's even saying this, what possible good it could do now. "The thing is, I don't think we could get along without you. I mean, sure, the city would run and everything, though it'd be a pain not to have your ATA gene, but... But we wouldn't have *you*."

Rodney hesitates, then puts his hand over John's. He feels John's fingers twitching under his palm, weak and burning. He leans forward, lowering his voice. It'd be terrible if anyone else heard this, what he's about to admit. "Elizabeth Weir may run this place, but you-- you're like its heart." He smiles. "Everyone likes you. Well, maybe not Bates, but everyone else does." He even laughs a little, thinking of that. "Elizabeth relies on your judgment--have you noticed how many times she lets you do whatever you want? And Teyla..." Rodney shakes his head. "I think Teyla would die for you, because you saved her people when the Wraith attacked, and went right into a hive ship to get her. And of course Aiden would follow you to hell if you just smiled at him."

John's fingers clench, and Rodney holds his hand a bit tighter. "And me--" He can't speak suddenly, and when he swallows it hurts. "God I'm stupid," he mutters, "you can't even hear me." But it still takes a minute or two before he can feels he can continue without embarrassing himself. "To me, you are... Well," he manages at last, "you're luminous. You're like light, and everyone around you gets reflected in it. Losing you would be like losing the sun."

There. He's said it.

He glances down at John once, before he gets up to leave, to get as far away from the infirmary as he can. John is still boiling hot. His body still shudders in the grips of his burning dreams. He's still dying.

Nothing's changed. And yet, everything.

***

Carson steps into the room, just as Rodney's almost reached the door.

"Excuse me," he says, moving neatly around him. The man's working by rote, Rodney thinks. This is a deathbed vigil. Nothing approaching treatment, now.

Rodney's not even angry, anymore. The grief hasn't started yet, though, so he's kind of... hovering, he decides. Floating in between. He feels like someone about to be delivered a terrible blow--like he's curling in on himself, waiting for the rush of pain.

He stands in the doorway, waiting for it. The blow, the pain he knows is coming.

Like losing the sun, he thinks. He still can't believe he said that, even when he was essentially speaking to no one.

Carson looks at the small thermometer. His whole body goes still.

And Rodney waits.

Carson turns around. His face is incredulous, but he's smiling.

"It's gone down," he says. "His temperature's gone down."

***

It is, he thinks, pretty darn pleasant to be able to doze in the sun. He has to admit he's glad he's alive to do it.

John is even gladder that it's Rodney standing there, letting his shadow fall over John's face. "Hey, McKay," he drawls, grinning, "how are you this fine afternoon?"

"Good, good... Thanks." Rodney seems a little distracted. He peers at the couch, squinting even though the sun's behind him. "You didn't drag this thing out here yourself, did you?"

John laughs. "No." He sighs and stretches, thrusting his arms and legs out like a cat. "Aiden got Weir's okay to haul it out here for me. And yes," he adds before Rodney can ask, "I had one of the nurses help me get here so I didn't keel over."

That's the only thing he doesn't like--it's been nearly a week and a half since his fever broke, and he's still so weak that getting from the infirmary to the balcony has been the extent of his daily routine. He hates having to sleep so much, and being so dependent on other people.

But he can live with it. He can live with all kinds of things, he's realized. Even the fact that it'll be at least two weeks before he can even think about flying, according to the doc.

He doesn't mind that nearly as much as he thought he would.

"Well, that's good," Rodney says. He's wearing his jacket, even though the late afternoon is still warm. His hands are thrust deep into his pockets. He looks nervous about something. "How are you feeling?"

Rodney hasn't come to see John very much since he woke up. He keeps saying he's busy, especially since Carson let him go off world again at least a week ago. He's been exploring with Aiden and Teyla, sometimes going with other teams.

John's pretty sure Rodney's been avoiding him.

"Hungry," he says. "Got any of those protein bars on you?"

"Oh, sure." Rodney blinks, then goes delving into one of his pockets. He takes out a foil-wrapped bar and holds it out.

John makes sure their fingers touch when he takes it. Rodney's eyes widen as he pulls his hand back. John just smiles.

"I, ah, could get you something from the mess, if you want."

"Naw," John waves it off. "This is great. Thanks." He lifts his bare feet from the end of the couch. "Sit down. Stay awhile. I could use the company."

Rodney just looks at him.

"C'mon," John says. "You're wearing me out, here."

That does it, of course. Rodney sits immediately, though he's as scootched against the far end of the couch as he can get. He folds his arms stiffly across his chest.

John bends his legs so he can put his feet down in Rodney's lap. When Rodney's head whips around he just smiles innocently at him and takes a bite of the Power Bar. It doesn't taste too bad, and he is kind of hungry.

Rodney sits at his end of the couch like a trapped animal. But his legs are nice and warm.

"So," John says, after he's chewed and swallowed, "how was the day trip?"

"It was fine," Rodney says. He's staring out over the ocean. The sun will be setting in a few minutes, and already the sky has the yellowish glow John's come to associate with this planet. He'll definitely have to go back in after that, though, so he won't get too cold.

"Just fine?" John asks. "Ford told me you and Corrigan had a grand old time--what with finding nifty tech in the ruins and getting to talk about mysterious Canadian things."

"Yeah." Rodney chuckles, despite himself. "He kind of got shanghaied into the Stargate program, same way I was, though his specialty wasn't in physics, of course, so we do have that in common..."

He goes on for awhile, relaxing as he talks, explaining about how some machine they found might be able to increase the capacity of the generators in the city, how excited Corrigan was with the writing, about some band called Rush they both really liked when they were teenagers. John settles back and half-listens, eating the Power Bar, letting the warm wash of Rodney's enthusiasm spread over him like a blanket.

By the end of it, Rodney's laughing at some joke that would only make sense to him and maybe three other people in the whole city, and his large hands are resting on John's feet.

Rodney's laughter dies off. He looks down at his hands, at John's feet in his hands, and then at John's face. His expression is caught somewhere between embarrassment and fear. He snatches his hands back, crosses his arms.

"It's okay," John says immediately. He smiles as disarmingly as he can. "That was nice. I liked it."

Rodney looks shocked. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." John wiggles his feet. "Besides, you were keeping 'em warm." He grins. "'Wouldn't want me to get sick again, right?"

"No," Rodney says, though he sounds a little dubious. "I suppose not." But he puts his hands back, and that's all that matters.

John settles further down on the couch with a happy sigh, crumpling the empty wrapper in his hand. He turns his head so he's looking out through the balcony railing, so he can watch the sunset. It'll be starting very soon.

"So," he says casually, as if it's a natural part of their conversation, "you really think I'm luminous?"

He expects Rodney to snatch his hands back again, wonders if he's still strong enough to keep Rodney from leaving. He really doesn't want Rodney to leave.

But Rodney doesn't move. John's not looking at him, but he feels him go completely still. "You *heard* that?" he asks. His voice is quiet awe.

John turns his head, and now he's looking at Rodney's face, and Rodney's eyes are very wide and there's almost a horror in them.

The flip response John was going to make dies in his mouth. "Not all of it," he says instead. "At least, I don't think so. It was kind of like a dream--like I was watching you from another part of the room." He smiles. "But, yeah."

"Oh," Rodney says, very softly. He turns away. "Oh, my god." He inhales sharply. "I didn't know," he whispers. "I didn't know you could hear anything."

"I'm sorry," John says, because Rodney suddenly looks so sad. "I guess I shouldn't have told you." He wonders if he should pull his feet back, let Rodney escape; forget any of this ever happened.

Rodney turns back to him, just looks at him for a long moment. His smile is surprisingly shy, barely a flicker on his face. "No," he says. "It's fine."

"Cool," John says.

"...But you know," Rodney says quickly, "that I was talking about how, well, everyone else sees you, really. Not me. I see you as, more of a *professional* thing--"

"Shh," John says gently. "Watch the sunset."

Rodney stops talking.

The sunset is beautiful.

Epilogue

A week later, he walks into Weir's office, proud that he made it there under his own steam. He still tires easily, though, and he's glad when she asks him to sit down.

"I'll talk to you," he says, before she can ask him how he's feeling. "About what happened. Not Heightmeyer. Let me talk to you."

Weir slowly straightens. "I'm not trained for this."

"I don't care," John says, pleased she hasn't refused outright. "You don't judge, and you listen. And you're always objective. That's all you need, right?"

"I suppose," Weir says. She thinks for a moment. "I'm willing, if this is what you want."

"It is." John nods seriously. "I trust you with this."

"Okay." Weir leans forward, clasps her hands on her desk. "When?"

John shrugs. "How about now?"

Weir glances at her laptop, then closes the screen. "Now is fine."

"Okay." John takes a deep breath. And then he tells her everything.

Next: Acts Of Enormity