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“Must have missed some guards,” Ronon said. He whipped out his blaster that whined to life.
John pushed the gas down all the way to the floor, keeping a death grip on the wheel that turned his knuckles white. As a teen, when ever they'd vacation on the ranch in Nevada, John would take the rust-heap of a Camero he'd bought with his own hard-earned money and tear up the desert with it; windows rolled down and wind whipping his hair. It hadn't been flying, but close to, and developed in John an instinct for maintaining control at impossible speeds.
His current ride was a clunky piece of monstrous crap fighting tooth and nail against him, but it couldn't and wouldn't win.
“We can't keep this up all the way back to the 'gate!” Rodney shouted barely above the roar of the wind. And he was right. The size of the cars' alone had admitted to their crappy gas mileage.
Most days it was either flight or fight for them: today it would be both.
“Ronon!” John called.
“On it.” The discharge was discernible above the scream of the wind. “Damn it! I can't hit any of 'em, they're too far out!”
“Aim for the cars!” John shouted, then ducked when something sparked off the metal bar around the wind-shield. A second shot seared across John's shoulder. There really was no way they were going to keep this up. Making a decision, John twisted the wheel hard, putting them back in the mud.
“What're you doing!” Rodney shrieked.
“Trust me!” The heavy wheels kicked up a spray of mud; not exactly a smoke screen but would do to make them a difficult target, forcing the bad guys to move around. “Rodney, get down and stay down! Ronon, Teyla, get ready to fire! Aim for the front!”
Their pursuers gained quick, the narrow road forcing them single file. More bullets pinged off the frame, getting too close for comfort. Teyla made a small yelp when a bullet scored her cheek, and Ronon arched back in time to keep a shot from tearing through his chest. John pulled on the wheel, zig-zagging the vehicle that was hell-bent on fishtailing over the slick mud. Sweat greased John's palm and he had to grip until it hurt to keep the wheel under his control.
His heart really needed to stop pounding, because his lungs didn't have enough room for the oxygen it was demanding. Yellow motes started skittering in his eyes.
The lead pursuing car eased up next to them, the sight of it making John's bones try to jump out of his skin. He pulled away from it, keeping himself and his team from turning into easy targets, as Teyla and Ronon fired.
Two of the five passengers packed into the enemy car went down. Then the front exploded in a shower of sparks igniting a fire that sent the driver careening off the road away from the fray. Ronon whooped.
“Premature, Conan, we still have one car left!” Rodney called. “And I think they've caught on to what we're up to!”
John glanced back. Rodney was right. The car was close, close enough for him to see the grime on the bad guy's faces from all the kicked-up mud, but keeping the course neither pulling forward nor backing off. Bullets bounced and sparked dangerously close. John flinched when a bullet scraped his arm. They all had no choice but to duck, making John's control of the car even more tenuous.
“I can't get a shot off!” Ronon snarled. John turned his head enough to see the big man hunkered impossibly small into the seat. Every time he tried to rise enough to shoot, a bullet forced him back down. Only the mud and zig-zagging stood between them and being dropped like paper ducks in a carnival game.
John longed for a couple of grenades, even a flashbang. “Anyone got any ideas!” A bullet lodged into the windshield, the epicenter of a web-work of cracks.
“Aim for the tires!” Rodney shouted.
“Not as easy as it looks, McKay?”
“We can't even aim!” barked Ronon.
John heard Rodney's frustrated growl. Then his gasp. “Oh, I know... Damn it! That friggin' hurt!”
“Rodney!” John shouted, trying to look behind, heart skittering even faster.
“I'm fine, just a flesh wound. Hit the breaks!”
“What!”
“Daedalus, Wraith virus, F-302 - remember? Hit. The. Brakes!”
John did, the car fishtailing like a dog shaking off water. The enemy car flew ahead of them, the surprise move startling the five men inside into inaction, giving Teyla and Ronon precious seconds to pop up like Jack-in-the-boxes and fire away. Three men went down and the front exploded, vomiting fire. John moved his foot back onto the gas and stepped on it, hard. He twisted the wheel, putting the car back onto the road. Behind them, the two burning cars shrank to fireflies in the distance.
John exhaled a sharp breath that declined into a coughing fit, in between which he managed to get out a “Nice... shooting... Tex.”
A shaky hand patted him on the shoulder. Rodney said, voice just as tremulous, “Nice driving, Speed Racer.”
They drove off into the sunset, where ever the hell the sunset was.
---------------------------
An hour could have passed, or maybe fifteen minutes, John couldn't tell. His focus encompassed only on keeping the car on the road and breathing in a way that delivered enough oxygen to his body without causing pain. With the bad guys far beyond them and no further attempts at pursuit, John's body had felt it an opportune time to release its hold on adrenaline. He could actually feel it drain from him like the flood waters of last night... was it last night? The night before – when ever. His energy was flagging that fast, reminding him of how tired he was; hungry yet nauseas, shivering yet so damn hot, and pain, pain, pain. So much as a cough made his ribcage cramp, but no coughing decreased the volume of his lungs.
The consequence of which was making it harder to drive.
For what had to be the fourth time – maybe more, John hadn't been paying enough attention to keep accurate count – the car almost veered off the road. The alarm squirted granules of energy into his blood, lasting all of two seconds before it was swept away.
“John?”
But now was not the time to stop. Far from it with that prison somewhere up ahead. Driving was obviously faster than walking and John didn't think it would take days to arrive; more like a day, day and a half.
“John?”
A small hand on his shoulder made him start, veer and fight to right the car. He glanced over at Teyla who was looking both concerned and contrite.
“Sorry,” she said, curling slender, bruised fingers into her palm. “Perhaps you should stop and allow someone else to drive.”
John shook his head. “No. We still...” he lifted a trembling finger - his arm weighing fifty pounds - pointing at the way ahead, “...still have one more place to get through.”
“I can do it,” said Ronon. “We had similar vehicles on Sateda.”
But John shook his head. “No. We can't stop. They'll catch up.”
“No, they won't,” Rodney sighed, exasperated. “At least not in the time it would take to switch drivers. Think logically, Colonel – you're exhausted, sick and who knows what else. You won't last much longer and don't need to kick yourself when you further our injuries by running into some rock wall or something else. Pull over, let Ronon drive.”
John's hands tensed tighter on the wheel. As much as he would love to acquiesce, a part of his mind – the part that had burned serve and protect into his very bones – hissed and cajoled like a commanding officer not to listen to the people around him. This current lull in their escape was nothing more than a respite capable of blowing up in their faces at any moment. They weren't safe, far from it, and because they weren't safe John couldn't rest.
It wasn't machoism, wasn't bravado; it was a fact of life. The moment John stopped, exhausted to the point of blindness or not, he wouldn't be able to get back up when needed. He really would be useless.
Worse, he'd be a possible hindrance, and like hell he was going to do that to his team.
The small hand returned to his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “John, it is all right. As long as we keep moving we will be all right, but you need to rest.”
“Actually, we all need to rest,” said Rodney. “But if it'll make you feel better, we can take turns. Hell, we'll even show Teyla how to drive so we can all be included. Everyone pitching in to let the others catch their breath. Sound fair?”
John's mouth twitched toward a wan smile. It did, actually. Easing off the gas and onto the break, he slowed the car to stop. But on trying to get out, dizziness dropped him like a rock to his knees.
“John!” Teyla called.
It seemed like only seconds later when John felt himself being lifted under the armpits and heard a deep voice rumble, “Got him.”
John tried to help, scrabbling to get his feet under him. But by the time he managed it he was already being maneuvered into the back seat next to Rodney, who was shaking out a dark-gray blanket. John blinked dumbly at it.
“Where'd you get that?”
“The back.” Rodney tucked the blanket around John. It was then John noticed a similar blanket covering Rodney's knees. “No wonder you didn't bark at me to sit down. I was rummaging through that crap the entire time you were driving.” He tilted his head toward the small trunk stuffed tight with bags. After John was cocooned, Rodney pulled out more blankets, handing two to Teyla; one for her and one to put around Ronon's shoulders – Ronon had started the car and was easing it back into its last speed. Rodney then unearthed more foil-wrapped food and canteens of water, all of which John scowled at.
“All I got was one pack with a shirt and coa-” the need to cough interrupted him and, boy, did it hurt something fierce. It was a fiery pain radiating through his chest, pushing a strangled moan through his aching throat. He curled up against it, shivering harder.
His body sighed a whimpering thank you; his mind screamed “not yet, not safe.” Except there was nothing he could do, even if he wanted to – and he wanted to. He very much wanted to. To placate that need, he pulled the rifle leaning between him and Rodney onto his lap, the business end pointed out into the endless landscape. It helped, a little – very little.
John startled when a canteen was placed in his hands.
“Drink,” Rodney commanded. When John brought the metal bottle toward his mouth, his hand shook so bad he couldn't place the spout to his lips.
“Crap, Sheppard...” Rodney breathed, pulling off being both jaded and concerned. He helped steady the canteen long enough for Sheppard to get down a few swallows, then took it before it was dropped. When an open foil of food tried to replace it, John pushed it away with a shake of his head.
“N-no food.”
“You sure?” Rodney asked.
John could only nod, curling deeper into the blanket. He was suddenly cold again, and so damn tired. He was aware like a man in a dream of Rodney handing a pack to Teyla, Teyla twisting around and leaning in to place it under his head, then adjusting the blanket. He watched with detached interest the endless land whipping by them, and if he closed his eyes almost thought they were flying.
His mind screamed no, not yet, not safe and when did you start letting your body call the shots? It was right. Crap, it was friggin' right and yet it wasn't enough to so much as lift his little finger. He was trapped in his own flesh, too tired to be scared though he knew he should have been. No matter how deep he let his imagination go with images of bad guys, guns and his team beaten and bruised, chained in a cell, it just wasn't enough.
John sighed. “Sorry... guys...” There were responses, voices trying to talk through water. John ignored them and whether he liked it or not, gave up consciousness.
Voices made him briefly resurface.
“...Like this for a whole day. The no food thing isn't really a big deal but then we have no idea if he ate anything before he found us. Getting water in him is what I'm worried about and we still don't know how far the gate is.”
Rodney. John was pretty sure that was Rodney talking. Why was it so damn dark? More importantly, why weren't they moving? John was all ready to ask why, then he opened his mouth and heard a strange croaking sound that he realized was his voice.
“Rodney... I think he is waking up. John? John, can you hear us?”
Hands touched him, hands he couldn't see and it freaked him out, giving him enough energy to shrug said hands off.
“John, it is all right, it is me, Teyla. You are safe.”
But John begged to differ, forcing his head to shake. “Prison -” he coughed and, hell, how it hurt. “Prison... prison...”
“What?” Rodney said. Then, “Oh! Yeah, that place. We passed that a long time ago. The road went right around it so relax.”
John did, slumping deeper into the seat. Something cool and hard was pressed to his lips. When he was commanded to drink, he didn't hesitate, gulping cool water that ended up being taken away prematurely.
“You need to stay awake, Colonel. I'm pretty sure you're teetering on the edge of dehydration,” Rodney said.
“Trying,” John rasped, but it was so hard. As wonderful as the water had been on his parched throat, it had sucked him clean of the little energy he'd had and he could feel himself slipping away again. He fought it, accomplishing the opposite, and was out like a light.
The next he awoke, it was daytime – not morning per se, just not dark anymore – and someone was prodding his shoulder.
“About time. Drink, hurry.” That was Rodney being his usual demanding self. When the cool lip of the canteen was pressed to his mouth, John happily did as told. It was hard to swallow without coughing – hard to do anything without coughing – and he suddenly became aware of how hard it was to breathe. So he made the mistake of hacking up the gunk clogging his lungs.
Once started, he couldn't stop, and each convulsive cough dug the unseen knife deeper into his chest and beat his skull with hammers. Then he was pummeled against his back, hard, and the gunk slapped against the back of his throat to go sliding down his stomach.
Big mistake. John's stomach twisted and before he could even gurgle an incoherent warning, he was leaning over the side of the car spraying the road with vomit.
“Oh, crap, slow down! Slow down!”
The car slowed, the wind dying, the vomit no longer splattering. John heaved and heaved then slumped into a shivering ball of pain, going at the canteen presented to him as though it had been years since his last drink of water. He rinsed, spit, then went at it again only to have it pulled away before he was ready.
“Let's not have a repeat of a moment ago,” said Rodney. “Okay, we're good.”
The car sped up, the wind tugging at his hair, clothes and blanket instead of toying. John felt tired enough too sleep for three weeks, but hurt too much to do so. Every breath pulled at his chest, tickled his lungs, but he was too afraid to cough.
“So if they thought you were so useless, why'd they keep you around?” Rodney asked. “I mean, you know, not that I think they should have killed you or anything. I'm just... being curious out loud, here.”
“Probably not a good way to keep him awake, McKay,” said Ronon.
“Hey, you said keep him awake, I'm keeping him awake. Besides, it's an innocent enough question.”
John snorted, although it sounded more like a frog being strangled. “Wanted to... sell me to some... guy as his... play thing.”
“Oh,” Rodney said. His balking was made apparent in his tone.
“Not strong enough... smart enough. Not... a woman... Useless.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, because it wasn't. Being seen as useless was good. They'd underestimated him and, golly-gee-whiz, how nice it was. He imagined his dad would have gotten a kick out of it – being useless having a use.
Teyla rose suddenly from her seat, pointing toward the horizon and the silhouette of a ring. “There!”
“I see it,” said Ronon.
“Except we don't have any way to let them know it's us,” said Rodney.
“I do,” Ronon replied. “Found the GDO with my blaster. I have it in my pants.”
“Oh, lovely. You can be the one to type in the code, then.”
Ten minutes later they were at the 'gate. What happened after that, John didn't see. As soon as Teyla hopped out to dial the 'gate, the part of his brain that demanded John protect became satiated and shut down, taking his body with it.
-------------------------
John found his way back to consciousness on a cough and a dull throb in his chest, half-expecting to feel the wind tugging his hair and smell gas fumes. What he smelled was chemicals – clean chemicals. What he felt was warmth and softness all around, and heard the beep, beep, beep of a machine keeping time with his heart. Following on the heels of sound, smells and sensation were other muted aches and something bugging the hell out of his nose. He slid a limp hand up his body to his face and two plastic tubes – one under his nose and one going into his nose. By the lack of his stomach feeling like an empty pit, he guessed the latter tubing the reason.
Lovely, and he wasn't being sarcastic on thinking that. It was lovely, spectacular even. It meant they were home, being healed, being fed, being looked after.
It meant they were safe.
“You with me this time?”
John rolled his head toward Rodney sitting as relaxed as Rodney could get in a plastic chair, laptop balanced on his knees though he was leaning back, hands folded over his stomach. He was regarding John warily.
“Because if not, this would make it a grand total of five times I called Jennifer in prematurely, and I doubt she'd appreciate it.”
John opened his mouth to respond. All that came out was a dull cough. Rodney was on it, holding an ice-chip within reach for John to take.
“Just nod your head.”
John nodded his head.
Satisfied, Rodney sat back, refolding his hands on his stomach. “Good. About damn time.” The look on his face was sober and just a hair's breadth from solemn. Normally whenever Rodney said such things, he was kidding. Not this time, apparently.
“You were unconscious for three days – relatively – six if you count the three days back on the planet. Jennifer said she'd never seen someone so exhausted before. You didn't even have the energy to cough the way you needed. And with the broken ribs... they had to put this tube in you to drain your lungs.” His expression soured when he said this. “Before the, um...” he gestured at his own face, “feeding tube one. How do you feel?”
John let out a long, slow breath, deflating his body that felt like it was melting into the bed. He gave Rodney a tired look. Even after so many days of rest, he didn't feel any different. Less aching, able to breathe, and finally warm, but the old platitude of sleeping for weeks wasn't just a platitude.
Rodney nodded. “We were warned that it was going to be a while before you got anything even resembling energy back. That must have been one hell of a walk you took to find us.”
John grimaced. You have no idea. “You... guys... 'kay?” he asked.
“Oh, just the usual cuts, bruises and mild infections. We'll live. You know, thanks to you, as usual.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, then fell momentarily silent.
“You know, I realized something,” Rodney then said, breaking that silence. He set aside the laptop so he could cross his ankle over his knee. “Ronon and Teyla are trained fighters. There was no way they could have been 'tamed',” he made quotations in the air with his fingers, “into anything anyone would buy. Even in that fighting pit I heard about – I mean, come on, you'd think a little thing like a gladiator arena would stop Ronon from escaping? Please. And you know Teyla would render any man looking to use her to plant his seed completely impotent. Those two were only good as incentive to get me to fix the ship. I kind of thought myself the only one with any worth for a while but, without the needed parts... yeah, I was just buying time for some kind of rescue or an escape plan that didn't end in us dying horribly. I could only give them one or the other – flight, weapons, or shield. Not everything. And they wanted everything.”
John cocked an eyebrow. Where are you going with this?
Rodney, however, shaking his head absently, didn't seem to notice. “We suck at being slaves.”
John stared at him. Rodney stared back. After a moment, they both burst into soft snickers, John pressing his hand into his taped ribs.
When the time finally came for John to be released from the infirmary, his team surrounded him as escort back to his room to finish off the self-made promise of weeks of rest, ensuring he was brought food, water, and wasn't disturbed.
They sucked at being slaves; they rocked as a team.
The End
John pushed the gas down all the way to the floor, keeping a death grip on the wheel that turned his knuckles white. As a teen, when ever they'd vacation on the ranch in Nevada, John would take the rust-heap of a Camero he'd bought with his own hard-earned money and tear up the desert with it; windows rolled down and wind whipping his hair. It hadn't been flying, but close to, and developed in John an instinct for maintaining control at impossible speeds.
His current ride was a clunky piece of monstrous crap fighting tooth and nail against him, but it couldn't and wouldn't win.
“We can't keep this up all the way back to the 'gate!” Rodney shouted barely above the roar of the wind. And he was right. The size of the cars' alone had admitted to their crappy gas mileage.
Most days it was either flight or fight for them: today it would be both.
“Ronon!” John called.
“On it.” The discharge was discernible above the scream of the wind. “Damn it! I can't hit any of 'em, they're too far out!”
“Aim for the cars!” John shouted, then ducked when something sparked off the metal bar around the wind-shield. A second shot seared across John's shoulder. There really was no way they were going to keep this up. Making a decision, John twisted the wheel hard, putting them back in the mud.
“What're you doing!” Rodney shrieked.
“Trust me!” The heavy wheels kicked up a spray of mud; not exactly a smoke screen but would do to make them a difficult target, forcing the bad guys to move around. “Rodney, get down and stay down! Ronon, Teyla, get ready to fire! Aim for the front!”
Their pursuers gained quick, the narrow road forcing them single file. More bullets pinged off the frame, getting too close for comfort. Teyla made a small yelp when a bullet scored her cheek, and Ronon arched back in time to keep a shot from tearing through his chest. John pulled on the wheel, zig-zagging the vehicle that was hell-bent on fishtailing over the slick mud. Sweat greased John's palm and he had to grip until it hurt to keep the wheel under his control.
His heart really needed to stop pounding, because his lungs didn't have enough room for the oxygen it was demanding. Yellow motes started skittering in his eyes.
The lead pursuing car eased up next to them, the sight of it making John's bones try to jump out of his skin. He pulled away from it, keeping himself and his team from turning into easy targets, as Teyla and Ronon fired.
Two of the five passengers packed into the enemy car went down. Then the front exploded in a shower of sparks igniting a fire that sent the driver careening off the road away from the fray. Ronon whooped.
“Premature, Conan, we still have one car left!” Rodney called. “And I think they've caught on to what we're up to!”
John glanced back. Rodney was right. The car was close, close enough for him to see the grime on the bad guy's faces from all the kicked-up mud, but keeping the course neither pulling forward nor backing off. Bullets bounced and sparked dangerously close. John flinched when a bullet scraped his arm. They all had no choice but to duck, making John's control of the car even more tenuous.
“I can't get a shot off!” Ronon snarled. John turned his head enough to see the big man hunkered impossibly small into the seat. Every time he tried to rise enough to shoot, a bullet forced him back down. Only the mud and zig-zagging stood between them and being dropped like paper ducks in a carnival game.
John longed for a couple of grenades, even a flashbang. “Anyone got any ideas!” A bullet lodged into the windshield, the epicenter of a web-work of cracks.
“Aim for the tires!” Rodney shouted.
“Not as easy as it looks, McKay?”
“We can't even aim!” barked Ronon.
John heard Rodney's frustrated growl. Then his gasp. “Oh, I know... Damn it! That friggin' hurt!”
“Rodney!” John shouted, trying to look behind, heart skittering even faster.
“I'm fine, just a flesh wound. Hit the breaks!”
“What!”
“Daedalus, Wraith virus, F-302 - remember? Hit. The. Brakes!”
John did, the car fishtailing like a dog shaking off water. The enemy car flew ahead of them, the surprise move startling the five men inside into inaction, giving Teyla and Ronon precious seconds to pop up like Jack-in-the-boxes and fire away. Three men went down and the front exploded, vomiting fire. John moved his foot back onto the gas and stepped on it, hard. He twisted the wheel, putting the car back onto the road. Behind them, the two burning cars shrank to fireflies in the distance.
John exhaled a sharp breath that declined into a coughing fit, in between which he managed to get out a “Nice... shooting... Tex.”
A shaky hand patted him on the shoulder. Rodney said, voice just as tremulous, “Nice driving, Speed Racer.”
They drove off into the sunset, where ever the hell the sunset was.
---------------------------
An hour could have passed, or maybe fifteen minutes, John couldn't tell. His focus encompassed only on keeping the car on the road and breathing in a way that delivered enough oxygen to his body without causing pain. With the bad guys far beyond them and no further attempts at pursuit, John's body had felt it an opportune time to release its hold on adrenaline. He could actually feel it drain from him like the flood waters of last night... was it last night? The night before – when ever. His energy was flagging that fast, reminding him of how tired he was; hungry yet nauseas, shivering yet so damn hot, and pain, pain, pain. So much as a cough made his ribcage cramp, but no coughing decreased the volume of his lungs.
The consequence of which was making it harder to drive.
For what had to be the fourth time – maybe more, John hadn't been paying enough attention to keep accurate count – the car almost veered off the road. The alarm squirted granules of energy into his blood, lasting all of two seconds before it was swept away.
“John?”
But now was not the time to stop. Far from it with that prison somewhere up ahead. Driving was obviously faster than walking and John didn't think it would take days to arrive; more like a day, day and a half.
“John?”
A small hand on his shoulder made him start, veer and fight to right the car. He glanced over at Teyla who was looking both concerned and contrite.
“Sorry,” she said, curling slender, bruised fingers into her palm. “Perhaps you should stop and allow someone else to drive.”
John shook his head. “No. We still...” he lifted a trembling finger - his arm weighing fifty pounds - pointing at the way ahead, “...still have one more place to get through.”
“I can do it,” said Ronon. “We had similar vehicles on Sateda.”
But John shook his head. “No. We can't stop. They'll catch up.”
“No, they won't,” Rodney sighed, exasperated. “At least not in the time it would take to switch drivers. Think logically, Colonel – you're exhausted, sick and who knows what else. You won't last much longer and don't need to kick yourself when you further our injuries by running into some rock wall or something else. Pull over, let Ronon drive.”
John's hands tensed tighter on the wheel. As much as he would love to acquiesce, a part of his mind – the part that had burned serve and protect into his very bones – hissed and cajoled like a commanding officer not to listen to the people around him. This current lull in their escape was nothing more than a respite capable of blowing up in their faces at any moment. They weren't safe, far from it, and because they weren't safe John couldn't rest.
It wasn't machoism, wasn't bravado; it was a fact of life. The moment John stopped, exhausted to the point of blindness or not, he wouldn't be able to get back up when needed. He really would be useless.
Worse, he'd be a possible hindrance, and like hell he was going to do that to his team.
The small hand returned to his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “John, it is all right. As long as we keep moving we will be all right, but you need to rest.”
“Actually, we all need to rest,” said Rodney. “But if it'll make you feel better, we can take turns. Hell, we'll even show Teyla how to drive so we can all be included. Everyone pitching in to let the others catch their breath. Sound fair?”
John's mouth twitched toward a wan smile. It did, actually. Easing off the gas and onto the break, he slowed the car to stop. But on trying to get out, dizziness dropped him like a rock to his knees.
“John!” Teyla called.
It seemed like only seconds later when John felt himself being lifted under the armpits and heard a deep voice rumble, “Got him.”
John tried to help, scrabbling to get his feet under him. But by the time he managed it he was already being maneuvered into the back seat next to Rodney, who was shaking out a dark-gray blanket. John blinked dumbly at it.
“Where'd you get that?”
“The back.” Rodney tucked the blanket around John. It was then John noticed a similar blanket covering Rodney's knees. “No wonder you didn't bark at me to sit down. I was rummaging through that crap the entire time you were driving.” He tilted his head toward the small trunk stuffed tight with bags. After John was cocooned, Rodney pulled out more blankets, handing two to Teyla; one for her and one to put around Ronon's shoulders – Ronon had started the car and was easing it back into its last speed. Rodney then unearthed more foil-wrapped food and canteens of water, all of which John scowled at.
“All I got was one pack with a shirt and coa-” the need to cough interrupted him and, boy, did it hurt something fierce. It was a fiery pain radiating through his chest, pushing a strangled moan through his aching throat. He curled up against it, shivering harder.
His body sighed a whimpering thank you; his mind screamed “not yet, not safe.” Except there was nothing he could do, even if he wanted to – and he wanted to. He very much wanted to. To placate that need, he pulled the rifle leaning between him and Rodney onto his lap, the business end pointed out into the endless landscape. It helped, a little – very little.
John startled when a canteen was placed in his hands.
“Drink,” Rodney commanded. When John brought the metal bottle toward his mouth, his hand shook so bad he couldn't place the spout to his lips.
“Crap, Sheppard...” Rodney breathed, pulling off being both jaded and concerned. He helped steady the canteen long enough for Sheppard to get down a few swallows, then took it before it was dropped. When an open foil of food tried to replace it, John pushed it away with a shake of his head.
“N-no food.”
“You sure?” Rodney asked.
John could only nod, curling deeper into the blanket. He was suddenly cold again, and so damn tired. He was aware like a man in a dream of Rodney handing a pack to Teyla, Teyla twisting around and leaning in to place it under his head, then adjusting the blanket. He watched with detached interest the endless land whipping by them, and if he closed his eyes almost thought they were flying.
His mind screamed no, not yet, not safe and when did you start letting your body call the shots? It was right. Crap, it was friggin' right and yet it wasn't enough to so much as lift his little finger. He was trapped in his own flesh, too tired to be scared though he knew he should have been. No matter how deep he let his imagination go with images of bad guys, guns and his team beaten and bruised, chained in a cell, it just wasn't enough.
John sighed. “Sorry... guys...” There were responses, voices trying to talk through water. John ignored them and whether he liked it or not, gave up consciousness.
Voices made him briefly resurface.
“...Like this for a whole day. The no food thing isn't really a big deal but then we have no idea if he ate anything before he found us. Getting water in him is what I'm worried about and we still don't know how far the gate is.”
Rodney. John was pretty sure that was Rodney talking. Why was it so damn dark? More importantly, why weren't they moving? John was all ready to ask why, then he opened his mouth and heard a strange croaking sound that he realized was his voice.
“Rodney... I think he is waking up. John? John, can you hear us?”
Hands touched him, hands he couldn't see and it freaked him out, giving him enough energy to shrug said hands off.
“John, it is all right, it is me, Teyla. You are safe.”
But John begged to differ, forcing his head to shake. “Prison -” he coughed and, hell, how it hurt. “Prison... prison...”
“What?” Rodney said. Then, “Oh! Yeah, that place. We passed that a long time ago. The road went right around it so relax.”
John did, slumping deeper into the seat. Something cool and hard was pressed to his lips. When he was commanded to drink, he didn't hesitate, gulping cool water that ended up being taken away prematurely.
“You need to stay awake, Colonel. I'm pretty sure you're teetering on the edge of dehydration,” Rodney said.
“Trying,” John rasped, but it was so hard. As wonderful as the water had been on his parched throat, it had sucked him clean of the little energy he'd had and he could feel himself slipping away again. He fought it, accomplishing the opposite, and was out like a light.
The next he awoke, it was daytime – not morning per se, just not dark anymore – and someone was prodding his shoulder.
“About time. Drink, hurry.” That was Rodney being his usual demanding self. When the cool lip of the canteen was pressed to his mouth, John happily did as told. It was hard to swallow without coughing – hard to do anything without coughing – and he suddenly became aware of how hard it was to breathe. So he made the mistake of hacking up the gunk clogging his lungs.
Once started, he couldn't stop, and each convulsive cough dug the unseen knife deeper into his chest and beat his skull with hammers. Then he was pummeled against his back, hard, and the gunk slapped against the back of his throat to go sliding down his stomach.
Big mistake. John's stomach twisted and before he could even gurgle an incoherent warning, he was leaning over the side of the car spraying the road with vomit.
“Oh, crap, slow down! Slow down!”
The car slowed, the wind dying, the vomit no longer splattering. John heaved and heaved then slumped into a shivering ball of pain, going at the canteen presented to him as though it had been years since his last drink of water. He rinsed, spit, then went at it again only to have it pulled away before he was ready.
“Let's not have a repeat of a moment ago,” said Rodney. “Okay, we're good.”
The car sped up, the wind tugging at his hair, clothes and blanket instead of toying. John felt tired enough too sleep for three weeks, but hurt too much to do so. Every breath pulled at his chest, tickled his lungs, but he was too afraid to cough.
“So if they thought you were so useless, why'd they keep you around?” Rodney asked. “I mean, you know, not that I think they should have killed you or anything. I'm just... being curious out loud, here.”
“Probably not a good way to keep him awake, McKay,” said Ronon.
“Hey, you said keep him awake, I'm keeping him awake. Besides, it's an innocent enough question.”
John snorted, although it sounded more like a frog being strangled. “Wanted to... sell me to some... guy as his... play thing.”
“Oh,” Rodney said. His balking was made apparent in his tone.
“Not strong enough... smart enough. Not... a woman... Useless.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, because it wasn't. Being seen as useless was good. They'd underestimated him and, golly-gee-whiz, how nice it was. He imagined his dad would have gotten a kick out of it – being useless having a use.
Teyla rose suddenly from her seat, pointing toward the horizon and the silhouette of a ring. “There!”
“I see it,” said Ronon.
“Except we don't have any way to let them know it's us,” said Rodney.
“I do,” Ronon replied. “Found the GDO with my blaster. I have it in my pants.”
“Oh, lovely. You can be the one to type in the code, then.”
Ten minutes later they were at the 'gate. What happened after that, John didn't see. As soon as Teyla hopped out to dial the 'gate, the part of his brain that demanded John protect became satiated and shut down, taking his body with it.
-------------------------
John found his way back to consciousness on a cough and a dull throb in his chest, half-expecting to feel the wind tugging his hair and smell gas fumes. What he smelled was chemicals – clean chemicals. What he felt was warmth and softness all around, and heard the beep, beep, beep of a machine keeping time with his heart. Following on the heels of sound, smells and sensation were other muted aches and something bugging the hell out of his nose. He slid a limp hand up his body to his face and two plastic tubes – one under his nose and one going into his nose. By the lack of his stomach feeling like an empty pit, he guessed the latter tubing the reason.
Lovely, and he wasn't being sarcastic on thinking that. It was lovely, spectacular even. It meant they were home, being healed, being fed, being looked after.
It meant they were safe.
“You with me this time?”
John rolled his head toward Rodney sitting as relaxed as Rodney could get in a plastic chair, laptop balanced on his knees though he was leaning back, hands folded over his stomach. He was regarding John warily.
“Because if not, this would make it a grand total of five times I called Jennifer in prematurely, and I doubt she'd appreciate it.”
John opened his mouth to respond. All that came out was a dull cough. Rodney was on it, holding an ice-chip within reach for John to take.
“Just nod your head.”
John nodded his head.
Satisfied, Rodney sat back, refolding his hands on his stomach. “Good. About damn time.” The look on his face was sober and just a hair's breadth from solemn. Normally whenever Rodney said such things, he was kidding. Not this time, apparently.
“You were unconscious for three days – relatively – six if you count the three days back on the planet. Jennifer said she'd never seen someone so exhausted before. You didn't even have the energy to cough the way you needed. And with the broken ribs... they had to put this tube in you to drain your lungs.” His expression soured when he said this. “Before the, um...” he gestured at his own face, “feeding tube one. How do you feel?”
John let out a long, slow breath, deflating his body that felt like it was melting into the bed. He gave Rodney a tired look. Even after so many days of rest, he didn't feel any different. Less aching, able to breathe, and finally warm, but the old platitude of sleeping for weeks wasn't just a platitude.
Rodney nodded. “We were warned that it was going to be a while before you got anything even resembling energy back. That must have been one hell of a walk you took to find us.”
John grimaced. You have no idea. “You... guys... 'kay?” he asked.
“Oh, just the usual cuts, bruises and mild infections. We'll live. You know, thanks to you, as usual.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, then fell momentarily silent.
“You know, I realized something,” Rodney then said, breaking that silence. He set aside the laptop so he could cross his ankle over his knee. “Ronon and Teyla are trained fighters. There was no way they could have been 'tamed',” he made quotations in the air with his fingers, “into anything anyone would buy. Even in that fighting pit I heard about – I mean, come on, you'd think a little thing like a gladiator arena would stop Ronon from escaping? Please. And you know Teyla would render any man looking to use her to plant his seed completely impotent. Those two were only good as incentive to get me to fix the ship. I kind of thought myself the only one with any worth for a while but, without the needed parts... yeah, I was just buying time for some kind of rescue or an escape plan that didn't end in us dying horribly. I could only give them one or the other – flight, weapons, or shield. Not everything. And they wanted everything.”
John cocked an eyebrow. Where are you going with this?
Rodney, however, shaking his head absently, didn't seem to notice. “We suck at being slaves.”
John stared at him. Rodney stared back. After a moment, they both burst into soft snickers, John pressing his hand into his taped ribs.
When the time finally came for John to be released from the infirmary, his team surrounded him as escort back to his room to finish off the self-made promise of weeks of rest, ensuring he was brought food, water, and wasn't disturbed.
They sucked at being slaves; they rocked as a team.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 04:03 am (UTC)From:Your muse came back with a flash and a bang.
Loved it!!
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Date: 2009-01-18 04:26 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 04:07 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:27 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 04:34 am (UTC)From:Overall, a marvelous story!
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Date: 2009-01-18 04:27 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 05:25 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:28 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 05:46 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:29 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 08:24 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:30 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 08:55 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:32 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 03:56 pm (UTC)From:*smushy hugs*
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:33 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 04:16 pm (UTC)From:Sheppard? Useless? Oh you stupid stupid slavers- he's going to kick your butt good :D
Great story- loved the insight in the Pegasus slave trade as well as team!goodness of the great escape.
Thanks for sharing with us!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:36 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 04:39 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:37 am (UTC)From:Fabulous!
Date: 2009-01-16 05:17 pm (UTC)From: (Anonymous)i love john's reflections in the cell at the start.
the rodney nicely summing everything up about sucking at being slaves.
I couldn't stop reading my heart was pounding, my palms sweating I just get scrolling down and couldn't press the part 2 link fast enough.
I do enjoy the detail you gave about the cross educating teams on those important things ... how to use the sensors and not vent air where the good guys are, the basic military training the scientist get... all that just makes things so much more real.
fabulous story.
Tracy_TheEverPresentNaggingOne
Re: Fabulous!
Date: 2009-01-18 04:41 am (UTC)From:I do enjoy the detail you gave about the cross educating teams on those important things ... how to use the sensors and not vent air where the good guys are, the basic military training the scientist get... all that just makes things so much more real.
I like exploring little details like that: number one because it prevents plotholes, and number two it helps to flesh out the universe bit by bit.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 05:32 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:42 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 05:56 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:42 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 06:42 pm (UTC)From:Amazing. Great Sheppard and Team. You always write such vivid alien landscapes and cultures. Wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:43 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 07:50 pm (UTC)From:Delicous whump and team action. Loved the wacked out car/dune buggy race! And i also liked the background slaver scenario- very cool.
SO glad you got your writing groove back!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:44 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 08:26 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:44 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 11:26 pm (UTC)From:Thank you very much for sharing!
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Date: 2009-01-18 04:45 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-17 01:13 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:46 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-17 03:09 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-18 04:48 am (UTC)From:I really do need to write more stories where john saves his tam. I don't write them enough, plus I enjoy when I can make it so that his team ends up taking caring of him in the end.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-17 04:34 pm (UTC)From:The last line is just so wonderful, so them. I made me chuckle.
That was fun.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-17 04:35 pm (UTC)From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-19 07:27 am (UTC)From:And Shep saving his team was a nice bonus. LOVED IT!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 03:50 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 12:21 am (UTC)From:I loved the backdrop for the story too, all grey and endless, it was the perfect metaphor for their journey home. Thanks! :)
no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 03:53 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-20 09:22 am (UTC)From:Thanks
Sam
no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 03:54 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 03:46 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 03:54 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-01-23 07:06 pm (UTC)From:This was so fun! I loved it! They do ROCK as a team!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-23 11:58 pm (UTC)From: