![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Earth Leave
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
titan5
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mentions of off-screen torture, but nothing explicit
Word Count: 6,938
Summary: After rescuing Sheppard from a terrible ordeal, the team is forced to take an Earth-side vacation. They're not too happy about it. Beta'd by the awesomewildcat88.
Earth Leave
Woolsey could be incredibly loud, and surprisingly aggressive, when motivated, and the dungeon's waiting room had good acoustics. Every punctuated word made the stringy muscles of the bony back under Rodney's hands jump and shudder. Rodney kept expecting Sheppard to bolt, but either Sheppard's stubborn resolve not to look any weaker than he was, or Teyla's soothing litany of assurances and shoulder rubbing, wouldn't let him. Ronon helped by being there, because nothing screamed “safe” like sitting next to big, pissed and protective.
“That is no excuse!” Woolsey barked. The dazed Sheppard flinched, like it was instinct rather than a reaction of fear, but he stayed put. The Grand Mur’s bald head bobbed in frantic agreement. For a moment, it was silent enough for Rodney to hear the hiss of Teyla's unblemished palm gliding gently over the shell of dirt and grime on Sheppard's bare shoulder.
“It is all right, John,” she whispered. Except it wasn't all right. Sheppard needed to get home, get medical attention, get an I.V. full of vitamins and uninterrupted sleep for a week. Rodney refused to look at the mess that was John's body. He'd seen enough to know that half the cuts and scrapes were probably infected.
It was ridiculous, all of it, and monumentally, idiotically clichéd. It's the friggin' Pegasus Galaxy, where the biggest fish to fry should have been the Wraith and only the Wraith. Rodney might not have been a citizen of this world but he could not, for the life of him, figure out how bad things could get for people to start a rebellion. Although maybe it had to do with how damn eager this planet was to solve its problems by sticking their own people in prison. The raid on the rebel camp hadn't gone well. The rebels had released their prisoners and let them mingle with the crowd. The result was the wrong people being shackled and dragged off to the city's dungeons to be interrogated.
Seriously, how hard was it to tell dangerous well-fed foe from poor, starving, dirt encrusted and abused bastard?
Three weeks, three damn weeks it had taken the Grand Muk to alert Atlantis that the ones taken by the rebels had been found. Three weeks to figure out who was the enemy and who wasn't, despite the fact that they already knew who was and wasn't, but it was protocol. Morons.
“Their pride has always made them difficult,” Teyla had said. She'd also warned Atlantis against trading with these people, mostly because they gouged their customers. The Athosians had stopped their own negotiations centuries ago. But the planet had an Ancient outpost, and the locals a plant that, when ground into a paste, made a good cream to counter the effects of sunburn. Keller liked using it to treat rashes.
The ass-chewing ended without Rodney realizing it when Teyla switched places with Ronon for Ronon to help lift Sheppard to his feet – in part because Teyla had injured her knee fighting rebels to keep herself from being kidnapped, but also in part because Ronon had that look on his face, the one that said he wanted to kill something. Having his hands full of a dazed and skittish Sheppard would prevent that... maybe, as long as the locals didn't get too close, or sneeze, or blink, or move.
They shuffled out of the small chamber then out of the disgustingly large government palace to where the 'jumper and a gurney were waiting. Since Woolsey was with them, Rodney safely assumed that the Grand Mush had been kind enough to let her forgo the paperwork. They bundled Sheppard onto a gurney before taking off. He remained silent the whole time.
There were five gurneys. They were supposed to be carrying five living bodies. Sheppard hadn't been the only one taken, just the only one not in a body bag.
------------------------------
“Oh come on!” Rodney shrilled. He leaned on the horn, not expecting results; it just made him feel better.
The cost was Sheppard jolting awake with a glassy-eyed look of brief panic. Only on doing a double-take in Rodney's direction then glancing back to Ronon and Teyla did he relax. He settled back into the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window. Four seconds later and he was out.
“Damn it,” Rodney muttered more quietly. “I had it figured out. At the time we left we should have beat most of the traffic.
Ronon bumped the back of his seat. “You figured wrong, McKay.”
“Why could the Apollo not simply beam us to our destination?” Teyla asked. Rodney thought he detected an exasperated sigh within the words.
“The SGC were all in agreement that it's a waste of energy except for emergencies,” Rodney said. Then emphasized, “Which it isn't,” just to have someone for Teyla to blame. She was tired, slightly carsick and despite most of it being her own fault for insisting on going to all four funerals, Rodney couldn't help feeling guilty that, maybe, he hadn't timed this right after all. Damn time zones and daylight savings always screwing him up. There was also a very good chance Teyla was starting to miss her son like crazy, who was with his dad visiting relatives. Rodney supposed that just because you came from a society that really did take a village to raise a child didn't mean you had to entirely like it.
Then there was Sheppard, who'd also insisted on going and ended up wearing himself out during funeral one. Rodney was surprised funeral three hadn't killed him. He was even more amazed that Sheppard had somehow found the strength to stay standing the entire time plus walk back to the car. But after that, he'd needed all the help he could get simply to stay up long enough to change his clothes. His cheeks had been red. The days were getting pretty damn cool, especially in the north, but John's face had remained flushed long after they'd gotten him inside and warmed up.
He was still a little flushed. Keller was going to kill Rodney. Except it was Keller's fault they were here... and the new shrink's, and Woolsey's, and the IOA. They'd been premature about hustling them all off for a little down time the moment John was out of the infirmary. Rodney had said they should have waited, while Keller insisted that John would be better off away from the source of his responsibilities and settled where he wouldn't have to lift a finger. He was still skittish, and most of Atlantis – okay, most of the science community – seemed incapable of getting “leave Colonel Sheppard the hell alone” downloaded into their feeble minds. Neither could they get it through their heads that you didn't have to go to the colonel directly to ask for a marine to fly them to the mainland and keep their asses safe.
Rodney leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands folded over the steering wheel. Strike his previous complaints – this was the SGC's fault, them and their damn budget cuts. Beaming didn't take that much energy.
Sheppard woke with another gasp that had nothing to do with any sudden loud noises. He tilted his head back against the window, but didn't go back to sleep.
---------------------------------
Rodney hated gas stations, and was starting to equally hate the size of Teyla's bladder – he could have sworn she'd just gone ten minutes ago. He was also starting to realize, and hate, that both Ronon and Sheppard had a weak spot for perusing cheap knick-knacks, depending on the gas station. Ronon was a little more practical about it, focusing on chips and candy. Sheppard seemed to look just for the sake of looking, picking up one thing only to put it back with no real interest. He'd been as emotional and expressive as a sedated cat since they'd rescued him. Keller blamed it on exhaustion and a crap load of other problems, which Rodney didn't refute. Neither did he like it. All Sheppard did was sleep, wander around like a zombie and occasionally eat if he was up to it – which most of the time he wasn't.
Premature. Too premature. They should have waited until Sheppard's appetite was normal, at the least.
There wasn't much to see at their newest stop but that didn't stop John from wandering. Ronon was distracted by the joint diner on the other side – some mom-and-pop-turned-fast-food place of the kind you could only find in certain areas of the country (like WhatABurger or Carl's Junior). It was obviously popular with truckers and bikers, black leather and fading denim filling just about every available booth.
All the same, while they were here, Rodney thought why the hell not?. It smelled pretty good, and they could eat it on the go. As soon as Teyla finally emerged from the bathroom wearing an unapologetic look, Rodney had them all shift over into the diner side of the room.
Which Rodney figured too late probably wasn't a good idea, what with Sheppard looking a little pale and the diner getting more crowded by the minute. As soon as they were figuratively trapped within the dividing bars, Rodney witnessed John stuffing his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders. These days he only did that to hide it when his hands were shaking. Rodney gripped his arm lightly to get his attention.
“Tell me what you want, then go wait in the car and I'll bring it out.”
John shrugged. “Not really hungry.”
“Too bad. It doesn't have to be anything fried. Look, they even have soups and salads. How about that?”
Again, John shrugged, blinking lethargically. “Soup sounds okay.”
“What kind?”
“Chicken noodle.”
“Lovely. Teyla, you wanna go with him and make sure he doesn't get lost?”
Sheppard was already on the move, squeezing back through the line. “It's a parking lot, Rodney, not a... you know.”
“Yeah, I know, don't care. Teyla?”
Teyla, who'd been behind John, smiled. “I would love to. And I would like their salad, and chicken noodle soup. Oh! And a cinnamon roll.” With her order in place, she too started the arduous journey of squeezing her way through the line.
It must have been closer to lunch than Rodney realized (he'd stopped looking at his watch to avoid groaning over the time wasted at all these pit stops). More people were coming in – herds of them: truckers, bikers and elderly couples traversing the country in RVs. It was getting impossible to move, and for Rodney a little claustrophobic. For John... Rodney couldn't imagine what John was going through, but it wasn't good by the way his body seemed to try and shrink in on itself. A lot of people weren't watching where they were going, and no matter where Sheppard moved, he couldn't reclaim his personal space.
Then John got clipped in his bad side, and all hell broke loose.
Desperate to get away, John either tripped or mis-stepped or was possibly pushed and he fell. Ronon snapped into action, leaping over the rails and almost knocking people down in the process. He shoved aside the people trying to help Sheppard up, bellowing not to touch him and to watch where they were going. Somehow – Rodney didn't know how, or why, or what deity seemed out to get them – it resulted in a pissing contest between Ronon and some biker/trucker (Rodney couldn't tell). There was bellowing, like two dogs establishing dominance, and suddenly biker/trucker was on the ground barely conscious, Ronon standing over him in triumph.
And Rodney and the rest of the team ended up outside, with no food and Rodney about to grind his teeth down to the roots. He'd had to pay the bastard to keep him from pressing charges – two hundred damn bucks.
They piled back into the car: Ronon still pissed, Teyla no doubt lamenting her lost cinnamon roll and blaming Ronon for it (every time she looked at him, she glared poisonous daggers) and Sheppard looking somehow both shell-shocked and painfully contrite. They sat there for a moment, each stewing in his or her respective moods.
Sheppard sighed, “Sorry,” flat and defeated, and that wasn't right. Sheppard didn't do defeat. He wasn't supposed to do defeat. He also sure as hell wasn't supposed to be apologizing for something that wasn't his fault.
The very air around them seemed to shift, becoming something solid and heavy and stifling, as though someone had closed all the windows and turned on the heat full blast. Vinyl creaked when Teyla leaned forward to place her slender hand on John's bony shoulder.
“It is not your fault.”
Rodney started the car. “People need to just learn to watch where they're going,” he said. He flipped through the little local brochure he'd bought before they'd been politely booted out, and beamed. “Hey, there's an IHOP just ten miles up. Who's up for stuffed cinnamon toast!”
The air shifted again, turning soft and pleasant, the windows opening. Ronon and Teyla were all smiles. Sheppard shrugged, the most normal reaction Rodney had seen from him in some time. The deity had finally taken pity on them.
-------------------------------------
The deity had changed its mind. IHOP was closed due to renovations. It was just their screwed-up luck that the questionable sandwich place with the equally questionable stained walls was still open. Rodney took orders and grabbed the even more questionable sandwiches, then took them all to a nearby rest stop to eat.
The rest stop made the sandwich place less questionable. Rodney guessed a month must have gone by since the garbage bins had been emptied. Rodney didn't trust everyone's combined weight not to break the picnic table. Breathing through their mouths didn't help, not that it mattered. They were only able to eat half their food, the rest spilling out the back of the bread either onto the suspiciously stained table-top or the ground.
They ate in uncomfortable silence – at least uncomfortable for Rodney; he wasn't sure about the others. Teyla's expression was tilting toward annoyed, Ronon's bone-deep bored, and Sheppard – as always – unreadable and exhausted. He ate the so-called soup but left his small sandwich untouched.
It made Rodney nervous when Ronon didn't offer to take John's sandwich. Before heading out, they made one more pit stop at another gas station – this one smaller with no restaurant – and bought a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
Sheppard was out as soon as he was back in the car. A half hour later (and still no need yet to break out the Pepto) Sheppard woke with a gasp, a shudder and the look of a man about to panic because he didn't know where he was. It took two minutes of staring at Rodney and a one-handed shoulder-rub from Teyla before he calmed down.
Then he tensed right back up with his face turning green. “McKay, I...”
Rodney's skin almost jumped from his bones. “On it!” He gave the wheel a hard right onto the shoulder, kicking up dirt and gravel. He barely came to a stop before Sheppard was out the door in a stumbling bolt toward the trees, already bent doubled. After making sure the car wouldn't roll away from them, Rodney struggled against his seatbelt (currently trying to strangle him) and the door to get out and go to him, clueless about what he was going to do when he got there other than clutch uselessly at a bottle of water or wet washcloth, but it felt right that someone stand close by.
Teyla beat him to it, sore knee a trifle in the face of concern.
Rodney leaned back against the car next to Ronon, both their arms folded as they waited and watched while John gagged a few times without result. Rodney silently cheered Sheppard's gut on not to rebel for once. As much as it would help Sheppard to feel better, he needed the nutrients to work his way back up to the heavier stuff before he withered away.
The deity finally decided to show them some compassion. After about a minute and a half, Sheppard straightened with his lunch still in his stomach. But he was pale, drawn, making his eyes more sunken and his face more angled. He started his way back to the car hunched and drained, and Rodney didn't miss the way his hands were shaking.
“This was a bad idea,” Ronon said.
“I know,” Rodney said.
“He wasn't ready.”
“I know.”
“We shouldn't be here.”
Rodney huffed a sigh. “Yeah, kind of figured that part out before we even hit the road.”
“We should contact Apollo, have them beam us back to the SGC so we can go home.”
“Not until the set number of days we're supposed to be on vacation are up.”
“I wanna go home.”
At any other time, Rodney would have laughed at Ronon's petulance. Today, he couldn't help joining in. “Tell me about it.”
There were unspoken procedures to follow when it came to returning from FUBAR missions. One: a week of being back in their own rooms. Two: a week of indulgences in the form of movie nights, pokers nights, and endless supplies of junk food. The junk food was most especially important – Sheppard had needed it to put more meat back on him. Three; a week of rediscovering normalcy. Four; a week of light duty. And five: A week of pretending that what happened hadn't happened.
A week, that was all they had asked for. One week of downtime before the forced Earth-side downtime. Ever since they'd set up the 'gate bridge, the IOA had been a lot more adamant about where the expedition spent their vacation time. The running theory was a secret fear of Atlantis seceding from Earth. Rodney suspected it was the influence of the SGC shrinks who thought Earth-leave a cure-all for every trauma, and the IOA fretting over liabilities. By forcing stressed expedition members to take their vacations on Earth, they could safely say “well, we did all we could” and wash their hands of any members who decided to finally go postal and initiate the city's self-destruct.
That was the problem with the IOA. They weren't there. They didn't see. They didn't know. They didn't understand. They were all idiots.
Everyone piled back into the car, Teyla tucking a blanket around John, reacting to the unspoken suspicion that he was cold. And Sheppard let her with a quiet thanks. He looked even more exhausted than before, but despite that, didn't go back to sleep.
They needed to get to their damn destination already and get this over with.
-----------------------------
Rodney wondered what Jeannie saw when she opened the door – a travel-weary bunch, haggard, annoyed and two of them possibly looking a little nauseous. They'd arrived at their cabin by the lake a little after five, only to unload and pack themselves back into the car for the half-hour drive to have dinner at Jeannie's per her invitation. Once again, Rodney had somehow miscalculated; they were supposed to arrive at the cabin at four. Once again, in order to deflect Teyla's wrath, he blamed it all on the SGC being control freaks and not letting them use the Apollo.
“Those ships are spoiling you,” Jeannie said after Rodney had explained why they hadn't just beamed down. She was probably right if Rodney's travel tales ended up forever starting off with why the SGC were stingy bastards for not letting them use beaming technology.
Jeannie led the pathetic bunch into the living room, already inviting them to make themselves comfortable. Rodney almost tripped over himself when he walked in and found the center of the room dominated by a play pen full of...
“Kittens?” he said. “When did you guys get a cat?”
“We're just babysitting,” Jeannie said. “Our neighbors had to go out town for a month but their cat just had her babies and they were reluctant to leave her alone. So we offered to watch them.”
There had to be eight kittens in there, little cream and tan furballs scaling their mother and attempting to climb the pen and get out. Madison was leaning over the edge, giggling with each kitten that reached her, only for her to put them back. She was beside herself with glee when Rodney positioned himself in her line of sight next to her.
“I call this one with the brown ear Toby, and this one with the brown that kind of looks like wings Angel... Oh! Mom says I can keep one, so this one's mine.” She handed Rodney a kitten without a lick of brown on it. “I named her Sophie, after the lady in Howl's Moving Castle who's old because a witch turns her old, but then she turns young again. We have it if you want to watch it, Uncle Mer.”
The kitten climbed onto Rodney's shoulder where it curled up against his neck, just like his cat used to when it was little. He was suddenly overcome by a pang of longing to see that cat again.
Madison handed each of the team a kitten. Teyla got Angel, who she was immediately smitten with and seemed to enjoy rubbing the cat against her cheek. “They are so soft.”
Ronon got Toby, holding it away from him with both hands, unsure of what to do with it. “What are they good for?” he asked.
“Killing rodents, keeping your lap warm... and that's about it. Not eating though,” Rodney emphasized. “Never eat one. You'll just end up coughing it up an hour later. And for crying out loud, Ronon, it's not going to bite you, so stop holding it like that.”
A kitten that was more tan than cream whom Madison had christened Mouse she gave to Sheppard. He'd plopped himself down on the couch the moment they'd walked into the room, half out of it and just about to doze. He startled when Madison set the kitten down, then scratched its head and ears half-heartedly. The man really needed a friggin' nap already, and was supposed to have had one before they came here. Stupid time zones, throwing McKay and his perfect timing off.
As Madison subjected the others to kittens and Howl's Moving Castle (and as happy as Rodney would have been to reminisce his days of having a cat, just not at the price of sitting through a lengthy cartoon) he opted for helping Jeannie set the table.
“Must have been a bad one,” Jeannie stated as she set out the plates.
“Of course it was a bad one. Do you not remember me telling you about the diner incident?” Rodney replied, setting out the glasses.
Jeannie snorted and shook her head. “I meant what happened to John. It must have been bad. Or is that just the medication's fault? I'm assuming he's medicated.”
Rodney paused in setting down the last glass. “Yes, it was bad.” He switched to setting out the cutlery. They were silent, and it irked Rodney. He knew what this was, what Jeannie was trying to do, what she always did when she knew someone was in a bad head space. Well, too bad, because it wasn't going to work this time.
“He wasn't the only one taken,” Rodney said, and winced. Damn Jeannie and her damn all-knowing patience. “Which, for him, is bad enough. But the idiots who took them, they had this thing, this funky alien shock collar thing. It was this device, probably Ancient because no way were those people that smart. It kept you under control but instead of shocking you it stuck this tiny needle in your spine and controlled your bodily functions. You know, messed with your heart rate, your breathing, when you had to go. Wasn't programmed to kill, just scare and humiliate.”
Rodney didn't need to look up to know that Jeannie was regarding him sympathetically.
“They wouldn't let John free until they removed it. It's the least we can do, they said. They take our people, let all of them except one die and think taking off a sadistic shock collar would make up for it. But, of course, they couldn't take it off and I had to step in. Took me ten seconds to get it off. Stupid, just stupid.”
“How is he?” Jeannie said. Rodney opened his mouth to respond with a “how do you think” when Jeannie held up her hand. “You know what I mean.” She moved to the fridge.
Jeannie carried a glass bowl of salad to the table, and Rodney followed with a pitcher of iced tea.
“I'm pretty sure... no, I am sure he's frustrated,” Rodney said, setting the pitcher down. “He's up, he's moving, he's gained a couple of ounces so that's something. He also has four broken ribs still pretty much broken and keeps getting sick.” Standing back to survey their work, Rodney put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Being here isn't helping. I mean, here on Earth, not your house,” he added quickly. “It was too soon.”
Jeannie smiled at him kindly. “Give it time, Mer. You guys just got here. It's the journey that's a pain in the ass. But you made it and you can relax.”
“Yeah, you try relaxing around a guy with a hair trigger reaction if you so much as shift in your seat. The thing is...” Rodney tossed up his hand and heaved a breath. “I don't know. I know what not to do, but I don't have a damn idea what to do.” He looked at Jeannie imploringly. “Does that make any sense?”
Jeannie came around the table and rubbed his shoulders. “Complete sense.” She then turned him and shoved him through the entryway. “Now go get everyone. I heard Caleb pulling up in the drive and dinner's ready.”
------------------------
John had the standard nightmare that came with having been tortured, humiliated and watching good men die right in front of you with nothing you could do about it. They weren't the standard “waking with a scream caught in your throat” since few nightmares really were. When John woke, he woke quietly, and not even Ronon, lightest sleeper in two galaxies, was always aware of it. It was incredibly annoying. Rodney, Ronon and John shared a room in the cabin, John and Rodney on the twin queen-sized beds and Ronon happy as a clam sleeping on the floor (there was a couch, but of course Ronon was too manly for a comfortable couch... that was three feet too small so, really, Rodney couldn't completely blame him). But Rodney couldn't say if it was good timing or bad that he was already up when the nightmare happened, emptying his bladder of the endless glasses of organic iced tea Jeannie had forced on him. Rodney had left the room with John safely bundled under the quilt. He returned to find the quilt on the floor and John nowhere in sight.
Rodney's panic was knee-jerk, habitual, spawned over the years of having to witness good people suffer. And since, this time, it was John who was suffering, that same habit led Rodney like a blood hound to the cabin's wrap-around porch. The night was comfortably cool, the air moist and touched with the smell of wood and pine, and the crickets really belting it out. Rodney found John leaning on the rail on the right side of the house, where the towering trees parted just enough to see the slope of a weather-worn and tree-buried mountain, black against the starry blue-black night.
This was what Rodney hated – the uncertainty, the not knowing whether to say something or back off. It froze him, froze everything, as though the decision to speak or leave John to his solitude had stopped time itself. Sometimes people needed words, but sometimes words made things worse. It was why Rodney hated emotional stuff. There was no handbook for it, no formula, no base code. Nothing but time-stopping uncertainty that made him feel like nothing more than a useless lump.
And John, he never asked for help. Ever. Which Rodney would be happy to blame him for if it didn't make him such a hypocrite. Out of fear, out of pride, neither of them ever asked.
It was funny how the simple stuff was always the hardest. They'd saved the city how many times? Saved each other how many times? Rodney had lost count, but he hadn't lost count of how many times they'd said, “Please, help me.”
Zero. A big, fat, whopping zero.
Rodney remained frozen.
Then, “You know what sucks?”
Rodney jumped. He'd forgotten, just in that moment, how hyper-aware John could be, especially after having survived a sucker punch by hell.
“We only had two guards,” John said. “We could have taken them. But those damn collars...” He trailed off. The moon was high, spilling light into their little open patch, outlining John and his hands gripping the rail until the tendons and knuckle bones stood out in white. He no longer looked like he had when they'd found him – frail going on desiccated and curling into himself. He looked rangy, like something you think is tame up until you approach it, weak until you corner it. But that was John, deceptively mild, deceptively laid back and lazy, and then anything but.
“We could have taken them,” John echoed. Rodney noticed something else – tremors rippling John's shoulders and finally, finally, Rodney knew what to do. Removing his own jacket, he approached John, because John wasn't some wild thing that would pounce, and placed the jacket across John's shivering back. Neither of them said anything, just watched the stars and listened to the night noises.
Rodney no longer felt petrified by indecision, so he figured this must be right.
-------------------------
Life could throw some wicked curve balls.
The next two days were spent doing absolutely nothing beyond the team changing the location of where they sunned themselves: the little grassy yard in front of the cabin, on the beach by the lake just a short walk down the road (but which they drove to anyway, John still tiring easily), and walking that same road just to be walking, making sure John got his exercise. And eating, of course, to put a little more weight onto John's bones.
It bothered Rodney how raw-boned John still was. Not emaciated, not anymore, but everyone still able to see John's ribs pressing against his shirt, even two shirts, whenever he crouched, and being able to feel the knobs of his backbone whenever Rodney clapped him on the back. He couldn't begin to fully empathize with how John must feel, but he could guess. It didn't matter how quickly John tired when they took walks, he kept going, forcing half-hour rest breaks before they could return. He was pushing himself, and nothing screamed “frustrated” like John pushing himself just short of the point of collapse.
He still wasn't sleeping well. Even when John napped, he woke with a gasp and a quickened pulse that Rodney, when close enough, could see fluttering in John's throat.
Day three, and John was being forcefully polite, his responses not only monosyllabic but clipped and fighting a losing battle against impatience. This, too, was why they should have stayed on Atlantis, with its corridors and floors of room after room where a man needing his space could escape to. Ronon had the gym, Teyla her meditations, Rodney his private lab, and John those endless halls.
Here, they had path after path of forest easy to get lost in and with no sensors to help find the one getting lost. Not even an LSD, because the SGC were paranoid assholes like that (they'd searched everyone thoroughly verging on you'd-better-buy-me-dinner-after-this, Rodney especially, using only the most advanced scanners, before letting them leave the SGC).
One more day, and John would be biting their heads off and pushing himself beyond the line to actual collapse.
Rodney decided to try to head it off. With a trip to the store. His intellect the size of a damn planet, and all Rodney could think of was to take John to a podunk little mom and pop place three miles up the road. John agreed to it with a clipped and predictable, “Fine, whatever.”
They all went, which completely defeated the purpose of going in the first place to give John his space, but Teyla was curious, Ronon protective and Rodney in no mood to argue. The mom and pop place was also the nearest gas station. Rodney figured he might as well make use of it. Jeannie had called and invited them over for a barbecue tonight, and Rodney had no desire to waste time getting there by catering to Ronon's desire to peruse whatever gas station they would have stopped at.
John he obviously didn't have to worry about. Two minutes of perusing, he was out of the store and back in the car. Rodney was about to ask what was wrong when he saw, through the windshield, John pull the bottle of pain medication Teyla always had him carry (just in case) from his pocket, open it, pop a pill and dry swallow. Rodney grimaced.
Sign number two of frustration: holding off on meds. John had explained it, once. It wasn't about stubborn resolve; it was about figuring how much he'd progressed by how much pain he was still feeling. Apparently, he was still feeling quite a bit of pain. Not even the tinted windshield could hide the beads of sweat on John's face.
Rodney turned, thrusting the pump back into its slot.
“Give it time, my ass,” Rodney mumbled.
Something small but hard dug itself into Rodney's ribs and he stiffened. He was about to turn his head, see what it was trying to bury itself in his flank, when a voice hissed, “Give me your wallet, now.”
Rodney's own brow popped with beads of sweat, his heart taking refuge in his throat and hammering impossibly hard. It took a moment for his Adam's apple to stop bobbing and allow him to squeak a barely audible, “Yeah, s-sure. J-just don't do anything we'll both regret. Okay? I'm just going to reach into my pocket and--”
“Shut the hell up and hurry!” gun-guy snarled.
“Okay, okay just, just hold on, okay? Just hold on.” Rodney slowly, agonizingly, reached into his pocket, his world narrowed to that one action and the gun putting a dent in his side.
Then the gun was gone, pulled away faster than Rodney could blink on the tail of gun-guy's grunt. Rodney didn't think about it when he whirled around – getting gun-guy's bearings or hoping to run, he didn't know. It didn't matter, because he was frozen to the spot, forced to watch as the skinny, raw boned, injured Sheppard straddled a guy in a gray hoodie – gun-guy, the gun on the ground and far out of reach – and pummeled him. It was more than self-defense; it was feral, it was fed up and not going to take it anymore, each blow brutal, drawing blood and punctuated by snarl after snarl from Sheppard until gun-guy was reduced to a whimpering mass, then an unconscious mass. And still Sheppard wailed on him.
Indecision made time crawl on its belly, turned Rodney's brain to sludge, slowing the realization that John wasn't going to stop until gun-guy was dead.
“Sheppard, stop!” Rodney screamed, startled to hear himself, startling himself even more when he rushed forward, grabbed John around the waist and hauled him off. John struggled, scraping and kicking at the air trying to get back, grunting in fury. His head snapped back, Rodney's reflexes fast enough to go with it and avoid any real damage. Then Ronon arrived, taking John from Rodney and pulling him away back to the car. Teyla crouched by gun-guy and checked his pulse. That she didn't look worried lifted from Rodney a weight he hadn't known was there.
“He will live,” Teyla said. She looked at Rodney despairingly. “But we are going to have to call your authorities, aren't we.”
Rodney could only nod.
The owner of the mom and pop place had already called and the cops arrived ten minutes later, enough time for a dazed Sheppard to calm down and Rodney to start panicking, forcing Teyla to be the one to explain. Hooray for intergalactic diplomatic skills, because the cops not only listened but believed them. That John was military on leave after suffering “a war tragedy” as Teyla put it, and looked like a guy who'd suffered a war tragedy, might have helped. They arrested the groggy and bleeding gun-guy and told the team that they should probably stick around until they matched the prints on the gun, just to play it safe.
That was perfectly fine. Rodney had the feeling they weren't going anywhere today. He called up Jeannie, who would forever be obnoxiously all-knowing but wonderfully understanding, then bundled a trembling, dazed Sheppard home.
John's knuckles were bloody, his hands stiff but not painful, so bruised but not broken.
“Kind of hard to deliver a good punch when... you know.” He lifted up his thin arms, turning them. He was sitting on his bed, knuckles bandaged, face pale. He stared at the white gauze as though just now realizing they were there.
He said, “I beat the hell out of that guy.”
Ronon, hovering like the rest of them, shrugged. “Better you than me. I probably would've killed him.”
John continued to stare at his hands.
Later that night, Rodney found John on the porch again, staring at that weather-worn mountain. Rodney joined him.
“Is it wrong that it felt good?” John asked. He looked at Rodney. “Hitting that guy over and over.” His gaze returned to the mountain. “Because it did. And I wanna feel guilty about it, but I don't.”
Rodney snorted. “Stupid thing to feel guilty for. That guy could've shot me.”
John nodded. “I know. But I couldn't stop. Then I would've killed him. That would've made me no better than him.”
“Did you want to kill him?”
John shrugged.
Rodney sighed. “Well, like it matters. We stopped you. That's what friends are for, after all – saving each other's lives, saving each other from ourselves... Maybe that's what feels good, that you stopped that guy.”
“From stealing your wallet,” John deadpanned.
“From possibly killing me. The guy was pretty nervous and we all how hair-trigger a gun can be when people are nervous.”
John was quiet. Rodney hoped because he was pondering the wisdom of what was said and not wallowing in guilt.
“We wouldn't have let you kill that guy,” Rodney said. “We didn't let you kill him, actually. But, to be brutally honest, I don't think you would have been able to, not with your scrawny chicken arms. Another four seconds and you probably would have passed out from exhaustion.”
A small, weak smile tugged at John's lips.
“Come on,” Rodney said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Inside, rest up. We owe Jeannie a barbecue tomorrow.”
-------------------
Rodney had to admit it – tofu hot dogs weren't that bad, and Caleb knew how to make a mean Portobello mushroom burger. While Caleb was cooking, Jeannie and Teyla made salad and John soaked up some more vitamin D from the sun in a lawn chair, Ronon kept Madison busy by chasing her all over the yard.
Seven years on the run from the Wraith, and all it took was one hyperactive little girl to wear Ronon down. After everyone was stuffed with tofu and other vegetable matter, Madison dragged Ronon off to endure yet another lengthy cartoon while the rest of the adults sat around and talked. Twenty minutes later, Sheppard followed, needing to lie down and admitting it. It was decided that now was as a good time as any to start cleaning up.
Rodney was halfway to the kitchen, his arms heavy with dishes, when John called for him. Rodney deposited the plates in a messy heap in the sink and rushed into the living room.
Where he found John sitting in the easy chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Check it out,” he said, lifting his pointy chin toward the couch.
Rodney looked up to see Ronon stretched out, snoring away, completely oblivious to the kittens currently crawling all over him, Mouse batting at the dreads hanging down, Angel pouncing on the dreads draped over his shoulders.
Rodney then heard something he hadn't heard in a long time.
John was laughing. Smiling and laughing. It made Rodney smile back.
“I'll get the camcorder,” he said. They might as well start making some memories on this damn vacation.
The end
A/N: A thousand virtual cookies to any artists out there willing to do a picture of Ronon sleeping and covered in kittens, because you know the squee-factor will be out of this world ;)
Recipient:
titan5Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mentions of off-screen torture, but nothing explicit
Word Count: 6,938
Summary: After rescuing Sheppard from a terrible ordeal, the team is forced to take an Earth-side vacation. They're not too happy about it. Beta'd by the awesome
wildcat88.Woolsey could be incredibly loud, and surprisingly aggressive, when motivated, and the dungeon's waiting room had good acoustics. Every punctuated word made the stringy muscles of the bony back under Rodney's hands jump and shudder. Rodney kept expecting Sheppard to bolt, but either Sheppard's stubborn resolve not to look any weaker than he was, or Teyla's soothing litany of assurances and shoulder rubbing, wouldn't let him. Ronon helped by being there, because nothing screamed “safe” like sitting next to big, pissed and protective.
“That is no excuse!” Woolsey barked. The dazed Sheppard flinched, like it was instinct rather than a reaction of fear, but he stayed put. The Grand Mur’s bald head bobbed in frantic agreement. For a moment, it was silent enough for Rodney to hear the hiss of Teyla's unblemished palm gliding gently over the shell of dirt and grime on Sheppard's bare shoulder.
“It is all right, John,” she whispered. Except it wasn't all right. Sheppard needed to get home, get medical attention, get an I.V. full of vitamins and uninterrupted sleep for a week. Rodney refused to look at the mess that was John's body. He'd seen enough to know that half the cuts and scrapes were probably infected.
It was ridiculous, all of it, and monumentally, idiotically clichéd. It's the friggin' Pegasus Galaxy, where the biggest fish to fry should have been the Wraith and only the Wraith. Rodney might not have been a citizen of this world but he could not, for the life of him, figure out how bad things could get for people to start a rebellion. Although maybe it had to do with how damn eager this planet was to solve its problems by sticking their own people in prison. The raid on the rebel camp hadn't gone well. The rebels had released their prisoners and let them mingle with the crowd. The result was the wrong people being shackled and dragged off to the city's dungeons to be interrogated.
Seriously, how hard was it to tell dangerous well-fed foe from poor, starving, dirt encrusted and abused bastard?
Three weeks, three damn weeks it had taken the Grand Muk to alert Atlantis that the ones taken by the rebels had been found. Three weeks to figure out who was the enemy and who wasn't, despite the fact that they already knew who was and wasn't, but it was protocol. Morons.
“Their pride has always made them difficult,” Teyla had said. She'd also warned Atlantis against trading with these people, mostly because they gouged their customers. The Athosians had stopped their own negotiations centuries ago. But the planet had an Ancient outpost, and the locals a plant that, when ground into a paste, made a good cream to counter the effects of sunburn. Keller liked using it to treat rashes.
The ass-chewing ended without Rodney realizing it when Teyla switched places with Ronon for Ronon to help lift Sheppard to his feet – in part because Teyla had injured her knee fighting rebels to keep herself from being kidnapped, but also in part because Ronon had that look on his face, the one that said he wanted to kill something. Having his hands full of a dazed and skittish Sheppard would prevent that... maybe, as long as the locals didn't get too close, or sneeze, or blink, or move.
They shuffled out of the small chamber then out of the disgustingly large government palace to where the 'jumper and a gurney were waiting. Since Woolsey was with them, Rodney safely assumed that the Grand Mush had been kind enough to let her forgo the paperwork. They bundled Sheppard onto a gurney before taking off. He remained silent the whole time.
There were five gurneys. They were supposed to be carrying five living bodies. Sheppard hadn't been the only one taken, just the only one not in a body bag.
------------------------------
“Oh come on!” Rodney shrilled. He leaned on the horn, not expecting results; it just made him feel better.
The cost was Sheppard jolting awake with a glassy-eyed look of brief panic. Only on doing a double-take in Rodney's direction then glancing back to Ronon and Teyla did he relax. He settled back into the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window. Four seconds later and he was out.
“Damn it,” Rodney muttered more quietly. “I had it figured out. At the time we left we should have beat most of the traffic.
Ronon bumped the back of his seat. “You figured wrong, McKay.”
“Why could the Apollo not simply beam us to our destination?” Teyla asked. Rodney thought he detected an exasperated sigh within the words.
“The SGC were all in agreement that it's a waste of energy except for emergencies,” Rodney said. Then emphasized, “Which it isn't,” just to have someone for Teyla to blame. She was tired, slightly carsick and despite most of it being her own fault for insisting on going to all four funerals, Rodney couldn't help feeling guilty that, maybe, he hadn't timed this right after all. Damn time zones and daylight savings always screwing him up. There was also a very good chance Teyla was starting to miss her son like crazy, who was with his dad visiting relatives. Rodney supposed that just because you came from a society that really did take a village to raise a child didn't mean you had to entirely like it.
Then there was Sheppard, who'd also insisted on going and ended up wearing himself out during funeral one. Rodney was surprised funeral three hadn't killed him. He was even more amazed that Sheppard had somehow found the strength to stay standing the entire time plus walk back to the car. But after that, he'd needed all the help he could get simply to stay up long enough to change his clothes. His cheeks had been red. The days were getting pretty damn cool, especially in the north, but John's face had remained flushed long after they'd gotten him inside and warmed up.
He was still a little flushed. Keller was going to kill Rodney. Except it was Keller's fault they were here... and the new shrink's, and Woolsey's, and the IOA. They'd been premature about hustling them all off for a little down time the moment John was out of the infirmary. Rodney had said they should have waited, while Keller insisted that John would be better off away from the source of his responsibilities and settled where he wouldn't have to lift a finger. He was still skittish, and most of Atlantis – okay, most of the science community – seemed incapable of getting “leave Colonel Sheppard the hell alone” downloaded into their feeble minds. Neither could they get it through their heads that you didn't have to go to the colonel directly to ask for a marine to fly them to the mainland and keep their asses safe.
Rodney leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands folded over the steering wheel. Strike his previous complaints – this was the SGC's fault, them and their damn budget cuts. Beaming didn't take that much energy.
Sheppard woke with another gasp that had nothing to do with any sudden loud noises. He tilted his head back against the window, but didn't go back to sleep.
---------------------------------
Rodney hated gas stations, and was starting to equally hate the size of Teyla's bladder – he could have sworn she'd just gone ten minutes ago. He was also starting to realize, and hate, that both Ronon and Sheppard had a weak spot for perusing cheap knick-knacks, depending on the gas station. Ronon was a little more practical about it, focusing on chips and candy. Sheppard seemed to look just for the sake of looking, picking up one thing only to put it back with no real interest. He'd been as emotional and expressive as a sedated cat since they'd rescued him. Keller blamed it on exhaustion and a crap load of other problems, which Rodney didn't refute. Neither did he like it. All Sheppard did was sleep, wander around like a zombie and occasionally eat if he was up to it – which most of the time he wasn't.
Premature. Too premature. They should have waited until Sheppard's appetite was normal, at the least.
There wasn't much to see at their newest stop but that didn't stop John from wandering. Ronon was distracted by the joint diner on the other side – some mom-and-pop-turned-fast-food place of the kind you could only find in certain areas of the country (like WhatABurger or Carl's Junior). It was obviously popular with truckers and bikers, black leather and fading denim filling just about every available booth.
All the same, while they were here, Rodney thought why the hell not?. It smelled pretty good, and they could eat it on the go. As soon as Teyla finally emerged from the bathroom wearing an unapologetic look, Rodney had them all shift over into the diner side of the room.
Which Rodney figured too late probably wasn't a good idea, what with Sheppard looking a little pale and the diner getting more crowded by the minute. As soon as they were figuratively trapped within the dividing bars, Rodney witnessed John stuffing his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders. These days he only did that to hide it when his hands were shaking. Rodney gripped his arm lightly to get his attention.
“Tell me what you want, then go wait in the car and I'll bring it out.”
John shrugged. “Not really hungry.”
“Too bad. It doesn't have to be anything fried. Look, they even have soups and salads. How about that?”
Again, John shrugged, blinking lethargically. “Soup sounds okay.”
“What kind?”
“Chicken noodle.”
“Lovely. Teyla, you wanna go with him and make sure he doesn't get lost?”
Sheppard was already on the move, squeezing back through the line. “It's a parking lot, Rodney, not a... you know.”
“Yeah, I know, don't care. Teyla?”
Teyla, who'd been behind John, smiled. “I would love to. And I would like their salad, and chicken noodle soup. Oh! And a cinnamon roll.” With her order in place, she too started the arduous journey of squeezing her way through the line.
It must have been closer to lunch than Rodney realized (he'd stopped looking at his watch to avoid groaning over the time wasted at all these pit stops). More people were coming in – herds of them: truckers, bikers and elderly couples traversing the country in RVs. It was getting impossible to move, and for Rodney a little claustrophobic. For John... Rodney couldn't imagine what John was going through, but it wasn't good by the way his body seemed to try and shrink in on itself. A lot of people weren't watching where they were going, and no matter where Sheppard moved, he couldn't reclaim his personal space.
Then John got clipped in his bad side, and all hell broke loose.
Desperate to get away, John either tripped or mis-stepped or was possibly pushed and he fell. Ronon snapped into action, leaping over the rails and almost knocking people down in the process. He shoved aside the people trying to help Sheppard up, bellowing not to touch him and to watch where they were going. Somehow – Rodney didn't know how, or why, or what deity seemed out to get them – it resulted in a pissing contest between Ronon and some biker/trucker (Rodney couldn't tell). There was bellowing, like two dogs establishing dominance, and suddenly biker/trucker was on the ground barely conscious, Ronon standing over him in triumph.
And Rodney and the rest of the team ended up outside, with no food and Rodney about to grind his teeth down to the roots. He'd had to pay the bastard to keep him from pressing charges – two hundred damn bucks.
They piled back into the car: Ronon still pissed, Teyla no doubt lamenting her lost cinnamon roll and blaming Ronon for it (every time she looked at him, she glared poisonous daggers) and Sheppard looking somehow both shell-shocked and painfully contrite. They sat there for a moment, each stewing in his or her respective moods.
Sheppard sighed, “Sorry,” flat and defeated, and that wasn't right. Sheppard didn't do defeat. He wasn't supposed to do defeat. He also sure as hell wasn't supposed to be apologizing for something that wasn't his fault.
The very air around them seemed to shift, becoming something solid and heavy and stifling, as though someone had closed all the windows and turned on the heat full blast. Vinyl creaked when Teyla leaned forward to place her slender hand on John's bony shoulder.
“It is not your fault.”
Rodney started the car. “People need to just learn to watch where they're going,” he said. He flipped through the little local brochure he'd bought before they'd been politely booted out, and beamed. “Hey, there's an IHOP just ten miles up. Who's up for stuffed cinnamon toast!”
The air shifted again, turning soft and pleasant, the windows opening. Ronon and Teyla were all smiles. Sheppard shrugged, the most normal reaction Rodney had seen from him in some time. The deity had finally taken pity on them.
-------------------------------------
The deity had changed its mind. IHOP was closed due to renovations. It was just their screwed-up luck that the questionable sandwich place with the equally questionable stained walls was still open. Rodney took orders and grabbed the even more questionable sandwiches, then took them all to a nearby rest stop to eat.
The rest stop made the sandwich place less questionable. Rodney guessed a month must have gone by since the garbage bins had been emptied. Rodney didn't trust everyone's combined weight not to break the picnic table. Breathing through their mouths didn't help, not that it mattered. They were only able to eat half their food, the rest spilling out the back of the bread either onto the suspiciously stained table-top or the ground.
They ate in uncomfortable silence – at least uncomfortable for Rodney; he wasn't sure about the others. Teyla's expression was tilting toward annoyed, Ronon's bone-deep bored, and Sheppard – as always – unreadable and exhausted. He ate the so-called soup but left his small sandwich untouched.
It made Rodney nervous when Ronon didn't offer to take John's sandwich. Before heading out, they made one more pit stop at another gas station – this one smaller with no restaurant – and bought a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
Sheppard was out as soon as he was back in the car. A half hour later (and still no need yet to break out the Pepto) Sheppard woke with a gasp, a shudder and the look of a man about to panic because he didn't know where he was. It took two minutes of staring at Rodney and a one-handed shoulder-rub from Teyla before he calmed down.
Then he tensed right back up with his face turning green. “McKay, I...”
Rodney's skin almost jumped from his bones. “On it!” He gave the wheel a hard right onto the shoulder, kicking up dirt and gravel. He barely came to a stop before Sheppard was out the door in a stumbling bolt toward the trees, already bent doubled. After making sure the car wouldn't roll away from them, Rodney struggled against his seatbelt (currently trying to strangle him) and the door to get out and go to him, clueless about what he was going to do when he got there other than clutch uselessly at a bottle of water or wet washcloth, but it felt right that someone stand close by.
Teyla beat him to it, sore knee a trifle in the face of concern.
Rodney leaned back against the car next to Ronon, both their arms folded as they waited and watched while John gagged a few times without result. Rodney silently cheered Sheppard's gut on not to rebel for once. As much as it would help Sheppard to feel better, he needed the nutrients to work his way back up to the heavier stuff before he withered away.
The deity finally decided to show them some compassion. After about a minute and a half, Sheppard straightened with his lunch still in his stomach. But he was pale, drawn, making his eyes more sunken and his face more angled. He started his way back to the car hunched and drained, and Rodney didn't miss the way his hands were shaking.
“This was a bad idea,” Ronon said.
“I know,” Rodney said.
“He wasn't ready.”
“I know.”
“We shouldn't be here.”
Rodney huffed a sigh. “Yeah, kind of figured that part out before we even hit the road.”
“We should contact Apollo, have them beam us back to the SGC so we can go home.”
“Not until the set number of days we're supposed to be on vacation are up.”
“I wanna go home.”
At any other time, Rodney would have laughed at Ronon's petulance. Today, he couldn't help joining in. “Tell me about it.”
There were unspoken procedures to follow when it came to returning from FUBAR missions. One: a week of being back in their own rooms. Two: a week of indulgences in the form of movie nights, pokers nights, and endless supplies of junk food. The junk food was most especially important – Sheppard had needed it to put more meat back on him. Three; a week of rediscovering normalcy. Four; a week of light duty. And five: A week of pretending that what happened hadn't happened.
A week, that was all they had asked for. One week of downtime before the forced Earth-side downtime. Ever since they'd set up the 'gate bridge, the IOA had been a lot more adamant about where the expedition spent their vacation time. The running theory was a secret fear of Atlantis seceding from Earth. Rodney suspected it was the influence of the SGC shrinks who thought Earth-leave a cure-all for every trauma, and the IOA fretting over liabilities. By forcing stressed expedition members to take their vacations on Earth, they could safely say “well, we did all we could” and wash their hands of any members who decided to finally go postal and initiate the city's self-destruct.
That was the problem with the IOA. They weren't there. They didn't see. They didn't know. They didn't understand. They were all idiots.
Everyone piled back into the car, Teyla tucking a blanket around John, reacting to the unspoken suspicion that he was cold. And Sheppard let her with a quiet thanks. He looked even more exhausted than before, but despite that, didn't go back to sleep.
They needed to get to their damn destination already and get this over with.
-----------------------------
Rodney wondered what Jeannie saw when she opened the door – a travel-weary bunch, haggard, annoyed and two of them possibly looking a little nauseous. They'd arrived at their cabin by the lake a little after five, only to unload and pack themselves back into the car for the half-hour drive to have dinner at Jeannie's per her invitation. Once again, Rodney had somehow miscalculated; they were supposed to arrive at the cabin at four. Once again, in order to deflect Teyla's wrath, he blamed it all on the SGC being control freaks and not letting them use the Apollo.
“Those ships are spoiling you,” Jeannie said after Rodney had explained why they hadn't just beamed down. She was probably right if Rodney's travel tales ended up forever starting off with why the SGC were stingy bastards for not letting them use beaming technology.
Jeannie led the pathetic bunch into the living room, already inviting them to make themselves comfortable. Rodney almost tripped over himself when he walked in and found the center of the room dominated by a play pen full of...
“Kittens?” he said. “When did you guys get a cat?”
“We're just babysitting,” Jeannie said. “Our neighbors had to go out town for a month but their cat just had her babies and they were reluctant to leave her alone. So we offered to watch them.”
There had to be eight kittens in there, little cream and tan furballs scaling their mother and attempting to climb the pen and get out. Madison was leaning over the edge, giggling with each kitten that reached her, only for her to put them back. She was beside herself with glee when Rodney positioned himself in her line of sight next to her.
“I call this one with the brown ear Toby, and this one with the brown that kind of looks like wings Angel... Oh! Mom says I can keep one, so this one's mine.” She handed Rodney a kitten without a lick of brown on it. “I named her Sophie, after the lady in Howl's Moving Castle who's old because a witch turns her old, but then she turns young again. We have it if you want to watch it, Uncle Mer.”
The kitten climbed onto Rodney's shoulder where it curled up against his neck, just like his cat used to when it was little. He was suddenly overcome by a pang of longing to see that cat again.
Madison handed each of the team a kitten. Teyla got Angel, who she was immediately smitten with and seemed to enjoy rubbing the cat against her cheek. “They are so soft.”
Ronon got Toby, holding it away from him with both hands, unsure of what to do with it. “What are they good for?” he asked.
“Killing rodents, keeping your lap warm... and that's about it. Not eating though,” Rodney emphasized. “Never eat one. You'll just end up coughing it up an hour later. And for crying out loud, Ronon, it's not going to bite you, so stop holding it like that.”
A kitten that was more tan than cream whom Madison had christened Mouse she gave to Sheppard. He'd plopped himself down on the couch the moment they'd walked into the room, half out of it and just about to doze. He startled when Madison set the kitten down, then scratched its head and ears half-heartedly. The man really needed a friggin' nap already, and was supposed to have had one before they came here. Stupid time zones, throwing McKay and his perfect timing off.
As Madison subjected the others to kittens and Howl's Moving Castle (and as happy as Rodney would have been to reminisce his days of having a cat, just not at the price of sitting through a lengthy cartoon) he opted for helping Jeannie set the table.
“Must have been a bad one,” Jeannie stated as she set out the plates.
“Of course it was a bad one. Do you not remember me telling you about the diner incident?” Rodney replied, setting out the glasses.
Jeannie snorted and shook her head. “I meant what happened to John. It must have been bad. Or is that just the medication's fault? I'm assuming he's medicated.”
Rodney paused in setting down the last glass. “Yes, it was bad.” He switched to setting out the cutlery. They were silent, and it irked Rodney. He knew what this was, what Jeannie was trying to do, what she always did when she knew someone was in a bad head space. Well, too bad, because it wasn't going to work this time.
“He wasn't the only one taken,” Rodney said, and winced. Damn Jeannie and her damn all-knowing patience. “Which, for him, is bad enough. But the idiots who took them, they had this thing, this funky alien shock collar thing. It was this device, probably Ancient because no way were those people that smart. It kept you under control but instead of shocking you it stuck this tiny needle in your spine and controlled your bodily functions. You know, messed with your heart rate, your breathing, when you had to go. Wasn't programmed to kill, just scare and humiliate.”
Rodney didn't need to look up to know that Jeannie was regarding him sympathetically.
“They wouldn't let John free until they removed it. It's the least we can do, they said. They take our people, let all of them except one die and think taking off a sadistic shock collar would make up for it. But, of course, they couldn't take it off and I had to step in. Took me ten seconds to get it off. Stupid, just stupid.”
“How is he?” Jeannie said. Rodney opened his mouth to respond with a “how do you think” when Jeannie held up her hand. “You know what I mean.” She moved to the fridge.
Jeannie carried a glass bowl of salad to the table, and Rodney followed with a pitcher of iced tea.
“I'm pretty sure... no, I am sure he's frustrated,” Rodney said, setting the pitcher down. “He's up, he's moving, he's gained a couple of ounces so that's something. He also has four broken ribs still pretty much broken and keeps getting sick.” Standing back to survey their work, Rodney put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Being here isn't helping. I mean, here on Earth, not your house,” he added quickly. “It was too soon.”
Jeannie smiled at him kindly. “Give it time, Mer. You guys just got here. It's the journey that's a pain in the ass. But you made it and you can relax.”
“Yeah, you try relaxing around a guy with a hair trigger reaction if you so much as shift in your seat. The thing is...” Rodney tossed up his hand and heaved a breath. “I don't know. I know what not to do, but I don't have a damn idea what to do.” He looked at Jeannie imploringly. “Does that make any sense?”
Jeannie came around the table and rubbed his shoulders. “Complete sense.” She then turned him and shoved him through the entryway. “Now go get everyone. I heard Caleb pulling up in the drive and dinner's ready.”
------------------------
John had the standard nightmare that came with having been tortured, humiliated and watching good men die right in front of you with nothing you could do about it. They weren't the standard “waking with a scream caught in your throat” since few nightmares really were. When John woke, he woke quietly, and not even Ronon, lightest sleeper in two galaxies, was always aware of it. It was incredibly annoying. Rodney, Ronon and John shared a room in the cabin, John and Rodney on the twin queen-sized beds and Ronon happy as a clam sleeping on the floor (there was a couch, but of course Ronon was too manly for a comfortable couch... that was three feet too small so, really, Rodney couldn't completely blame him). But Rodney couldn't say if it was good timing or bad that he was already up when the nightmare happened, emptying his bladder of the endless glasses of organic iced tea Jeannie had forced on him. Rodney had left the room with John safely bundled under the quilt. He returned to find the quilt on the floor and John nowhere in sight.
Rodney's panic was knee-jerk, habitual, spawned over the years of having to witness good people suffer. And since, this time, it was John who was suffering, that same habit led Rodney like a blood hound to the cabin's wrap-around porch. The night was comfortably cool, the air moist and touched with the smell of wood and pine, and the crickets really belting it out. Rodney found John leaning on the rail on the right side of the house, where the towering trees parted just enough to see the slope of a weather-worn and tree-buried mountain, black against the starry blue-black night.
This was what Rodney hated – the uncertainty, the not knowing whether to say something or back off. It froze him, froze everything, as though the decision to speak or leave John to his solitude had stopped time itself. Sometimes people needed words, but sometimes words made things worse. It was why Rodney hated emotional stuff. There was no handbook for it, no formula, no base code. Nothing but time-stopping uncertainty that made him feel like nothing more than a useless lump.
And John, he never asked for help. Ever. Which Rodney would be happy to blame him for if it didn't make him such a hypocrite. Out of fear, out of pride, neither of them ever asked.
It was funny how the simple stuff was always the hardest. They'd saved the city how many times? Saved each other how many times? Rodney had lost count, but he hadn't lost count of how many times they'd said, “Please, help me.”
Zero. A big, fat, whopping zero.
Rodney remained frozen.
Then, “You know what sucks?”
Rodney jumped. He'd forgotten, just in that moment, how hyper-aware John could be, especially after having survived a sucker punch by hell.
“We only had two guards,” John said. “We could have taken them. But those damn collars...” He trailed off. The moon was high, spilling light into their little open patch, outlining John and his hands gripping the rail until the tendons and knuckle bones stood out in white. He no longer looked like he had when they'd found him – frail going on desiccated and curling into himself. He looked rangy, like something you think is tame up until you approach it, weak until you corner it. But that was John, deceptively mild, deceptively laid back and lazy, and then anything but.
“We could have taken them,” John echoed. Rodney noticed something else – tremors rippling John's shoulders and finally, finally, Rodney knew what to do. Removing his own jacket, he approached John, because John wasn't some wild thing that would pounce, and placed the jacket across John's shivering back. Neither of them said anything, just watched the stars and listened to the night noises.
Rodney no longer felt petrified by indecision, so he figured this must be right.
-------------------------
Life could throw some wicked curve balls.
The next two days were spent doing absolutely nothing beyond the team changing the location of where they sunned themselves: the little grassy yard in front of the cabin, on the beach by the lake just a short walk down the road (but which they drove to anyway, John still tiring easily), and walking that same road just to be walking, making sure John got his exercise. And eating, of course, to put a little more weight onto John's bones.
It bothered Rodney how raw-boned John still was. Not emaciated, not anymore, but everyone still able to see John's ribs pressing against his shirt, even two shirts, whenever he crouched, and being able to feel the knobs of his backbone whenever Rodney clapped him on the back. He couldn't begin to fully empathize with how John must feel, but he could guess. It didn't matter how quickly John tired when they took walks, he kept going, forcing half-hour rest breaks before they could return. He was pushing himself, and nothing screamed “frustrated” like John pushing himself just short of the point of collapse.
He still wasn't sleeping well. Even when John napped, he woke with a gasp and a quickened pulse that Rodney, when close enough, could see fluttering in John's throat.
Day three, and John was being forcefully polite, his responses not only monosyllabic but clipped and fighting a losing battle against impatience. This, too, was why they should have stayed on Atlantis, with its corridors and floors of room after room where a man needing his space could escape to. Ronon had the gym, Teyla her meditations, Rodney his private lab, and John those endless halls.
Here, they had path after path of forest easy to get lost in and with no sensors to help find the one getting lost. Not even an LSD, because the SGC were paranoid assholes like that (they'd searched everyone thoroughly verging on you'd-better-buy-me-dinner-after-this, Rodney especially, using only the most advanced scanners, before letting them leave the SGC).
One more day, and John would be biting their heads off and pushing himself beyond the line to actual collapse.
Rodney decided to try to head it off. With a trip to the store. His intellect the size of a damn planet, and all Rodney could think of was to take John to a podunk little mom and pop place three miles up the road. John agreed to it with a clipped and predictable, “Fine, whatever.”
They all went, which completely defeated the purpose of going in the first place to give John his space, but Teyla was curious, Ronon protective and Rodney in no mood to argue. The mom and pop place was also the nearest gas station. Rodney figured he might as well make use of it. Jeannie had called and invited them over for a barbecue tonight, and Rodney had no desire to waste time getting there by catering to Ronon's desire to peruse whatever gas station they would have stopped at.
John he obviously didn't have to worry about. Two minutes of perusing, he was out of the store and back in the car. Rodney was about to ask what was wrong when he saw, through the windshield, John pull the bottle of pain medication Teyla always had him carry (just in case) from his pocket, open it, pop a pill and dry swallow. Rodney grimaced.
Sign number two of frustration: holding off on meds. John had explained it, once. It wasn't about stubborn resolve; it was about figuring how much he'd progressed by how much pain he was still feeling. Apparently, he was still feeling quite a bit of pain. Not even the tinted windshield could hide the beads of sweat on John's face.
Rodney turned, thrusting the pump back into its slot.
“Give it time, my ass,” Rodney mumbled.
Something small but hard dug itself into Rodney's ribs and he stiffened. He was about to turn his head, see what it was trying to bury itself in his flank, when a voice hissed, “Give me your wallet, now.”
Rodney's own brow popped with beads of sweat, his heart taking refuge in his throat and hammering impossibly hard. It took a moment for his Adam's apple to stop bobbing and allow him to squeak a barely audible, “Yeah, s-sure. J-just don't do anything we'll both regret. Okay? I'm just going to reach into my pocket and--”
“Shut the hell up and hurry!” gun-guy snarled.
“Okay, okay just, just hold on, okay? Just hold on.” Rodney slowly, agonizingly, reached into his pocket, his world narrowed to that one action and the gun putting a dent in his side.
Then the gun was gone, pulled away faster than Rodney could blink on the tail of gun-guy's grunt. Rodney didn't think about it when he whirled around – getting gun-guy's bearings or hoping to run, he didn't know. It didn't matter, because he was frozen to the spot, forced to watch as the skinny, raw boned, injured Sheppard straddled a guy in a gray hoodie – gun-guy, the gun on the ground and far out of reach – and pummeled him. It was more than self-defense; it was feral, it was fed up and not going to take it anymore, each blow brutal, drawing blood and punctuated by snarl after snarl from Sheppard until gun-guy was reduced to a whimpering mass, then an unconscious mass. And still Sheppard wailed on him.
Indecision made time crawl on its belly, turned Rodney's brain to sludge, slowing the realization that John wasn't going to stop until gun-guy was dead.
“Sheppard, stop!” Rodney screamed, startled to hear himself, startling himself even more when he rushed forward, grabbed John around the waist and hauled him off. John struggled, scraping and kicking at the air trying to get back, grunting in fury. His head snapped back, Rodney's reflexes fast enough to go with it and avoid any real damage. Then Ronon arrived, taking John from Rodney and pulling him away back to the car. Teyla crouched by gun-guy and checked his pulse. That she didn't look worried lifted from Rodney a weight he hadn't known was there.
“He will live,” Teyla said. She looked at Rodney despairingly. “But we are going to have to call your authorities, aren't we.”
Rodney could only nod.
The owner of the mom and pop place had already called and the cops arrived ten minutes later, enough time for a dazed Sheppard to calm down and Rodney to start panicking, forcing Teyla to be the one to explain. Hooray for intergalactic diplomatic skills, because the cops not only listened but believed them. That John was military on leave after suffering “a war tragedy” as Teyla put it, and looked like a guy who'd suffered a war tragedy, might have helped. They arrested the groggy and bleeding gun-guy and told the team that they should probably stick around until they matched the prints on the gun, just to play it safe.
That was perfectly fine. Rodney had the feeling they weren't going anywhere today. He called up Jeannie, who would forever be obnoxiously all-knowing but wonderfully understanding, then bundled a trembling, dazed Sheppard home.
John's knuckles were bloody, his hands stiff but not painful, so bruised but not broken.
“Kind of hard to deliver a good punch when... you know.” He lifted up his thin arms, turning them. He was sitting on his bed, knuckles bandaged, face pale. He stared at the white gauze as though just now realizing they were there.
He said, “I beat the hell out of that guy.”
Ronon, hovering like the rest of them, shrugged. “Better you than me. I probably would've killed him.”
John continued to stare at his hands.
Later that night, Rodney found John on the porch again, staring at that weather-worn mountain. Rodney joined him.
“Is it wrong that it felt good?” John asked. He looked at Rodney. “Hitting that guy over and over.” His gaze returned to the mountain. “Because it did. And I wanna feel guilty about it, but I don't.”
Rodney snorted. “Stupid thing to feel guilty for. That guy could've shot me.”
John nodded. “I know. But I couldn't stop. Then I would've killed him. That would've made me no better than him.”
“Did you want to kill him?”
John shrugged.
Rodney sighed. “Well, like it matters. We stopped you. That's what friends are for, after all – saving each other's lives, saving each other from ourselves... Maybe that's what feels good, that you stopped that guy.”
“From stealing your wallet,” John deadpanned.
“From possibly killing me. The guy was pretty nervous and we all how hair-trigger a gun can be when people are nervous.”
John was quiet. Rodney hoped because he was pondering the wisdom of what was said and not wallowing in guilt.
“We wouldn't have let you kill that guy,” Rodney said. “We didn't let you kill him, actually. But, to be brutally honest, I don't think you would have been able to, not with your scrawny chicken arms. Another four seconds and you probably would have passed out from exhaustion.”
A small, weak smile tugged at John's lips.
“Come on,” Rodney said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Inside, rest up. We owe Jeannie a barbecue tomorrow.”
-------------------
Rodney had to admit it – tofu hot dogs weren't that bad, and Caleb knew how to make a mean Portobello mushroom burger. While Caleb was cooking, Jeannie and Teyla made salad and John soaked up some more vitamin D from the sun in a lawn chair, Ronon kept Madison busy by chasing her all over the yard.
Seven years on the run from the Wraith, and all it took was one hyperactive little girl to wear Ronon down. After everyone was stuffed with tofu and other vegetable matter, Madison dragged Ronon off to endure yet another lengthy cartoon while the rest of the adults sat around and talked. Twenty minutes later, Sheppard followed, needing to lie down and admitting it. It was decided that now was as a good time as any to start cleaning up.
Rodney was halfway to the kitchen, his arms heavy with dishes, when John called for him. Rodney deposited the plates in a messy heap in the sink and rushed into the living room.
Where he found John sitting in the easy chair, grinning from ear to ear. “Check it out,” he said, lifting his pointy chin toward the couch.
Rodney looked up to see Ronon stretched out, snoring away, completely oblivious to the kittens currently crawling all over him, Mouse batting at the dreads hanging down, Angel pouncing on the dreads draped over his shoulders.
Rodney then heard something he hadn't heard in a long time.
John was laughing. Smiling and laughing. It made Rodney smile back.
“I'll get the camcorder,” he said. They might as well start making some memories on this damn vacation.
A/N: A thousand virtual cookies to any artists out there willing to do a picture of Ronon sleeping and covered in kittens, because you know the squee-factor will be out of this world ;)
