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“He can fly, punch through brick walls and shoot lasers out of his eyes,” Ronon said. “I don't care how smart you are, you can't beat that.”
John tried to open his eyes, wanted to open them, because he could not honestly believe that McKay was having this debate with the native of another galaxy.
“Hey, who're you talking to, here? If I can outsmart a bunch of organic super-computers in human form, then Batman can sure as hell bring a muscle-head like Superman to his knees. In matters of brains versus brawn, brains will always triumph, my friend. We geniuses are quick to learn and to adapt.”
“Then why can't you learn to keep your eyes forward during self-defense training?”
“Because that's a matter of brawn. It's not like it takes a high I.Q. to hit someone with a stick.”
John winced. Rodney needed neither smarts nor brawns in a conflict. Get him into a debate and his voice would rise to octaves so high that hemorrhaging was inevitable. John swore he could already feel his liquefying brains leaking out of his ears.
“It does if you don't want the guy you're hitting to hit you back, because I can guarantee he's going to hit a hell of a lot harder.”
“Rodney, Ronon,” Teyla said in a voice that was both forced calm and slightly strained. “Please. I do not think this is a matter that can be resolved. Besides, I must agree with Ronon. I do not see how one such as Batman, who has no powers, can defeat one such as Superman.”
“Intelligence is a power! I -”
Pain lance like a drill burying itself in the center of John's skull, and he couldn't take it any more. “Rodney!” He furrowed his brow at the weak, rough voice that came out of his mouth. “Enough. Stop, just... stop. Too damn loud.”
“You didn't have any problem with us talking before!”
“McKay!” John attempted to growl, only to end up with a pleading whimper. “Jus'... keep it down.”
Silence filled the 'jumper thick as water. John kind of wished it was water; cool, clear water lapped against his overheated skin. He could actually imagine himself slipping away into an oblivion of cold blue – surfing, swimming, floating on his back – when small, cool hands touched his face, forehead, then cheeks.
“His headache must be worse,” he heard Teyla whisper. “The aches and pains are always at their worst during the first stage of the illness.”
“Now.... ya tell... me,” John said. One hand slipped beneath his head to lift it so the rim of a bottle could be pressed against his lips. Having a hand against his head it hurt, like something pushing into his skull rather than simply against it. The pain, in turn, upset his already pissed-off stomach, making it impossible to manage more than two sips of water. Even having his head set back on the “pillow” brought no relief, and the small amount of water was already pissing his stomach off.
“Maybe he should take more Tylenol,” Rodney said at a voice-level that didn't make Sheppard want to strangle him.
“He'll puke it back up, again,” said Ronon. “What about morphine? That's in a needle.”
“Are you nuts!” When John moaned, Rodney's voice lowered back to a loud whisper. “Are you nuts? We don't know what that'll do to him in his state. Especially his breathing. Look, we've only got ten hours left. We'll just... try not to talk loud.”
Silence settled back around them, comfortable as water, and a wet cloth blotted most of the heat from John's face and neck.
“I used to get sick a lot when my family and I took trips,” Rodney said, his voice-level soft, gentle: the most gentle John had ever heard, and therefore tolerable. “Hours spent in a car with the windows rolled down because Dad was too cheap to turn on the A/C always wreaked havoc on my inner ear and stomach. Except I only puked once. Just once. The rest of the time it was a lot of moaning, groaning and Jeannie whining at Dad to figure out a way to get me to shut-up. Although, there was this one time we were in the car for nine hours while I had the flu. And let me tell you, hell hath no fury like a kid with a stomach bug riding in a car. We were stopping every twenty minutes just so I could purge. My dad made the mistake of telling me to hold it until we reached a gas station. Ha! Took two weeks before he managed to get the smell out. Completely served him right.”
John managed a two-second, wan smile before his face started to ache, forcing him to drop it.
“I hit my head during training,” Ronon said. “Puked all over my taskmaster. Served him right, too.”
“Perhaps we should talk of something else beside throwing-up,” interjected Teyla, thankfully. John's stomach didn't need any more incentive for further rebellion, and he could already feel it getting ideas.
“It was how I met Melena,” Ronon said, as though it had been the point of his story all along. “I was in training, she was in training. She had to keep me awake, so we talked. Best injury I ever got.”
“I take it back,” Rodney replied. “Sheppard's not Kirk. You are. Seriously, when's my due? Where's my hot alien babe to nurse me back to health?”
“Do not worry, Rodney,” said Teyla. “The next time you get sick, I will care for you.”
“But it's not the same,” Rodney whined.
The cloth touching John's face pulled away. “Oh? And why not?”
“Well, because we're on the same team... practically co-workers and, um, we're... friends and... it's just not the same, okay? Not that I don't appreciate the offer, because I do. So thank you – in advance.”
The cloth returned to John's face. He drifted, not into unconsciousness, but a between state where the pain was a muffled throb and his stomach offered up a tentative truce. He imagined himself floating, in water of course, cold and still like the lake in the mountains where he and his family would go camping. The voices of his team settled into a steady murmur that eventually wandered into complete silence.
There was no pain. No feeling. Only floating, on water, in the air. The air was better: colder, with no limits. He was no longer floating but flying like a bird hovering on the wind, and all discomfort was shoved to the very back of his mind, still present but menial.
Then the discomfort started fighting back. John pushed, putting open sky and cool water between him and the pain, only to have the pain shove back, forcing enough elbow room to creep in little by little, drop by drop. A pulse at first, like pressure expanding inside his skull to spread through the rest of his body. The pulse became a jack-hammer rhythm pounding on his brain and bones, shattering his neck where it joined the skull. John made the mistake of moving his head to stretch too-tight muscles, and the dull pain went from jack-hammer to the shockingly sharp pain of a pick-ax of ice. He couldn't have stopped the whimper croaking from his throat even if he'd tried. It was a small, pathetic noise, and opened the door to more nausea.
The truce was broken, sending John rolling off the bench to the floor on his hands and knees and crawling to the bathroom. Once there, he curled his body around the toilet, and would have hugged it to his chest if he could. With nothing in his stomach but water, he accomplished little more than another round of dry heaves that made his rib-muscles scream and spasm. It was no short of a miracle that his stomach hadn't turned inside out, yet.
When he finally finished, he had no energy left to so much as lift a finger, let alone drag himself back to the bench. No point to it, anyways. He was better off where he was, even if the floor was ice and the air like Antarctica in the summer. Cold from the metal toilet soaked into his skin to ride his blood to the rest of his body, and he shivered.
John loved it. He pressed his cheek into the toilet's rim, basking in the cold that shoved back the heat, making him question why the hell he was shivering. Sicknesses were like that, he recalled. The body battled with itself, like a man with multi-personalities: one side arguing for heat, the other for cold, unable to decide on one so settling for both. Just like any other illness, except longer, more vicious, happily ravaging a body defenseless against it thanks to light-years of distance having kept them separate. John had never felt this terrible when sick. It was one hundred steps above the flu, and ten steps below being fed on by a wraith, and he wasn't exaggerating.
He longed for a good old fashioned Earth flu and, again, he wasn't exaggerating.
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Hands gripping below the arm-pits startled John from his cesspool of misery, only to heap more misery until he was drowning in it when he was lifted to his feet. His buckling knees would have sent him crashing to the floor if he'd slipped from the hands holding him. The pain was everywhere, as though every muscle had stiffened and every joint locked; spine, ribs and neck included. He barely registered his body being swiftly moved and laid out on a barely-soft surface. The pressure on his bones forced another whimper from him. He curled up, then arched, coiling and uncoiling trying to stretch the cramps and aches from his muscles.
A hand settled on his shoulder, another on his forehead. John cracked his eyes open, cringing even from the dim light, to see himself on the floor instead of the bench, and Ronon crouched in front of him.
“What hurts?” Ronon asked.
John choked up a laugh that turned into a mild fit of coughing, just not mild enough to keep from pissing off his body. “Easy.... tell you.... not hurts,” he rasped.
Ronon nodded in understanding. He then started rubbing his hands, first together, then on his pant legs, alternating. When he was satisfied, he slipped one hand under John's shirt, pressing it against his chest.
John jolted and tried to pull away. “Ronon, what -?”
“Trust me,” Ronon said.
“But -”
“Trust me. Roll onto your back.”
John complied, but not because he had a choice. The smallest amount of pressure from Ronon's hand had him on his back. His shirt was pulled up to his chin, exposing him to cooler air that felt heavenly on his roasting skin.
Ronon moved his hand back and forth, pulling with his fingertips and pushing with the heel of his hand, neither a general massage nor deep tissue massage; more like deep tissue rubbing that was quick and uncomfortable. It moved away from the breastbone to the flanks, still back and forth across the entire rib-cage, then up and down, shifting to the collarbones and shoulders. John kept his head tilted back so he didn't have to watch – like a pathetic attempt at “out of sight, out of mind.” He wasn't a stranger to massages, but the ones he'd received had always been limited to his back, arms and legs, and administered by complete strangers he knew he would never see again. This was too... weird, and Ronon being remarkably gentle about it weirded him out even more. On the other hand, Ronon wouldn't be playing masseuse if he didn't know what he was doing nor have a reason for it. So John tried his best to relax and let it happen.
When the front was done, Ronon helped John to roll onto his stomach for his back to be exposed. There, rubbing became kneading with the heel of the hand up the ribs to the spine, and up the spine to the neck where the thumbs replaced the heel, digging into muscle like it was dough.
“Learn this... from Melena?” John asked. The thought made him even less comfortable.
“My mom,” Ronon said. “I know it kind of hurts at first, but it's worth it. Trust me.”
“If I didn't trust you... I wouldn't... be letting you do this.” John let his eyes wander the rear hatch. “My mom jus' gave me back rubs.” Teyla was curled up in the corner of the other bench with her sleeping bag covering her, and John could hear Rodney's snores carrying from the cockpit.
“This is better,” Ronon said. There was another minute of kneading, then Ronon's hands pulled away, tugging John's shirt back down. John was carefully shifted onto his back.
There was a noticeable difference in the aches and pains. Nothing major – John could still barely move – but when he breathed, his ribs didn't feel like they'd shrunk, and his backbone felt less like it had solidified into a wooden pole.
John clasped Ronon's shoulder with a shaking hand. “Thanks... big guy.” He closed his eyes, enjoying the decrease in discomfort while he could.
“How is he? Is he all right?” Rodney's voice, and it was close by, but now that John's eyes were closed, they had no intentions of opening again no matter how hard he pried them.
“Shouldn't you be piloting the 'jumper?” Ronon asked.
“We're out in the middle of space, coordinates are in place... How is he?”
“He's fine.”
“No he's not. He's anything but fine.”
“Then why did you ask?”
The breath rushed from Rodney's lungs in a sharp huff. “I want to know why he's on the floor instead of the bench.”
“Then you should have just said so.”
“I...”
“Relax, McKay. His body was locking up. He needs room to be able to stretch out. I could barely move him from the bathroom without him hurting.”
“Oh.” Cloth rustled, footsteps tapped, then John felt the movement of displaced air and knew that Rodney was sitting somewhere close by. “Is that normal? His body locking up?”
“Just muscles going stiff,” Ronon said.
“Aren't you worried about catching this thing?”
“Aren't you?”
“Well, yeah, but... uh... Will you stop answering me with a question!”
Ronon chuckled. “It's not that contagious McKay.”
“Yes, well, tell that to Sheppard.”
“That little girl was eating off his plate and drinking from his cup the whole time we were there, mostly when he wasn't looking. She did it to me, too. That's why it's considered a childhood disease – kids don't have a big concept of germs.”
“You can say that again. So why aren't you sick?”
“Already had it, once,” Ronon said, matter-of-fact. “It's what dropped me in the middle of a village. It's why the chief's daughter wouldn't listen to me when I told them that I had to leave. It's why they were culled.”
Silence, then a quiet, sober, “Oh,” from Rodney. The single syllable was succeeded by more silence, a whole minute of it – John counting it out in his head just to see – when Rodney cleared his throat. “You, uh... you can rest if you want. I'll take watch, now.”
“Thanks,” Ronon said. Cloth whispered and leather creaked when Ronon moved, John guessed, to the now vacated bench.
Rodney stayed where he was. John felt the need to acknowledge his presence, let him know that things weren't as bad as they looked. Yes, the only time John had felt worse was when the wraith had fed on him, but if Teyla said this sickness wouldn't kill him, then it wouldn't kill him.
Try as he might, he still couldn't get his eyes to open, so settled on speaking. “R'dny?” He could have sworn his voice was getting weaker. “Hhh-eey-y. R'dny. Rodney.”
A cool hand gripped his wrist. “John? Sheppard? You awake? You need something? Water? Tylenol?”
A drink sounded good. “Water.” The hand on his wrist moved to his head, lifting just enough to tip the bottle his lips. The sips weren't many, or large, but did wonders to his sand-blasted throat.
“Guess that's enough,” Rodney said, setting John's head back down. “Can't have you puking. You may look like a bean-pole but you weigh a hell of a lot more, and I'm not putting my back out just so you can vomit nothing.”
John's hand flopped over his sleeping bag like a dead fish until bumping into Rodney's thigh. Once he established the thigh's location, he thumped it with the back of his hand.
McKay scoffed, “Please, I barely felt that.”
“Bedside manner... work on it. You 'kay McKay? Fevers? chills?”
“No. Unlike you, I know how not to share.”
John wiggled his head in a tiny nod. “Good. Sucks. Really... sucks.”
“I can see that,” Rodney said softly. There was shifting, shuffling, water gurgling from a bottle, then the rough but wet texture of a cloth resting on John's forehead. It was a little slice of bliss.
“I remember when I was withdrawing from the wraith enzyme,” Rodney said. “Well, okay, I don't really remember much of it. I remember Carson being there. And I kind of remember the pain. Not in detail or anything, just that it was different from any other kind of pain I've experienced. Sharp and, um, cold. That's all, though. A lot of sharp and a lot of cold. And it's ridiculous because after it was all said and done, I would keep thinking 'gee, wouldn't it be nice to be that strong and energetic again' at the same time I was remembering the sharp cold. I hated that feeling, the pain, being out of control. But it was never enough to keep me from... considering. Nothing strong, nothing I would give into on a whim. Just to think it, though, so casually, like I was deciding what to eat for dinner - that... that scared me. Really scared me. Still does, sometimes...”
Rodney's voice trailed off uncertainly. John didn't need to see the physicist's face to know that he was mulling over where he'd been going with the story, and questioning why he'd brought it up in the first place. Except he didn't need a reason. This was the “wallowing in hell” club, and everyone had a story to tell. John entertained the notion of bringing up the wraith feeding, but being the one doing the current wallowing, saw no point to it. This wasn't about comparing, this was about understanding, because pain was pain – weakness was weakness - no matter the source, and it was scary sometimes, even if you were good at pretending it wasn't.
Even if it wasn't your pain. Especially if it wasn't your pain.
“Maybe you shouldn't sit too close,” John said. “Just... just in case.”
“Oh. Right, right.” More rustling cloth, more shifting and shuffling, but no footfalls. John pooled everything he had into cracking one eyelid open, just enough to see Rodney's blurred bulk perched stiffly on the edge of the bench next to Teyla's curled-up form.
“Cockpit, Rodney,” John rasped. It was reaching that point where talking was impossible. Ronon's “massage” may have unlocked his muscles; it hadn't gotten rid of the pain. “Can't see... bad guys from... from back... here.”
“I doubt we'll be seeing any bad-guys until we reach the gate. Until then, we're cloaked, and the 'jumper's on hyper-sensitive alert for any obstacles. You know: asteroids, moons, bumper to bumper traffic -”
“Jus'... humor... me.”
Rodney sighed. “Fine.” Air brushed John as Rodney passed in a tap of footfalls that ended with a thump and indignant squeak from one of the chairs.
“Th'nks, M'kay,” John muttered. They really needed to get those chairs oiled.
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Sleep was impossible. All John could manage was unpleasant daydreaming that led to even more unpleasant images that didn't take him away from the sharp headache and full-body agony. He rolled from side to back to side, curling, uncurling, stretching, splaying then curling again. If he breathed too deep, his sides cramped. When he didn't breathe deep enough, he felt like he was suffocating, and no matter how small the cough, it always resulted in a wildfire. And it was so – damn – hot, it seemed impossible that he hadn't melted into a puddle, yet.
On the plus side, he no longer had to crawl to the bathroom (not that he could if he'd wanted to at this point). Someone had placed an empty container – a case that had probably held nine-mils or replacement parts – by his head to dry-heave in to his heart's content. He really wished he could puke up his stomach, then he'd be free of that aspect of the illness.
“How is he?” asked Rodney, loud enough to be heard, not so loud as to drive the pick-axes deeper into John's skull.
“His skin is hotter than it has been,” Teyla replied.
“Is that normal?”
Teyla sighed. “I do not know. Perhaps it is, since all other symptoms have been excessive for him. He needs to be cooled down, just in case.”
Strong hands lifting him by the shoulders sent the pain into a riot. There was no holding back the moans over the manhandling and his shirt scraping over his suddenly tender skin when it was removed. It was worth it, though, when the cooler air wrapped around his upper body. He wanted to ask why they hadn't done this sooner, but talking was like rubbing his throat with a metal sander. Besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have let them. His stubborn dignity wouldn't have allowed it.
The cloth that had centered its mopping on his head was now blotting his chest, and it still chafed against his sensitized skin. He would have pulled away if he'd had the energy.
“Our ETA is forty minutes, give or take,” Rodney said. “Just forty more minutes.”
John launched into a coughing fit that rattled his body and set the muscles of his chest on fire. When he finished, a large hand pushed into his skin, kneading his chest then ribs until every breath didn't make John long for someone to shoot him.
Gradually, the temperature of the rear hatch dropped from sweltering to frigid, tensing his body with shivers. He struggled to roll onto his side when a small, yet strong, hand gripped his shoulder and held him in place.
“No, John, you must stay on your back or your muscles will lock up again.”
“C-cold,” he gasped.
“I know. Do not worry, it is normal. The symptoms may be worse for you, but the illness is progressing as it should. The chills do not last as long as the heat. They should pass in a shorter amount of time. But the fever is still there and we need to keep it from progressing.”
John forced his eyes open to look up at Teyla's hazy face. As she wiped his face and chest, keeping her other hand on her stomach in that same possessive, longing hold, she hummed a slow tune that John had once heard at the last festival the Athosians had before they'd vanished.
John smiled. “Son's a... lucky... kid,” he croaked, sore-throat be damned. “You gonna... gonna be a... a great mom...”
Teyla smiled back, and not even John's hazy vision could veil the maternal glow on her face. “Thank you, John.”
John's eyes fluttered closed, his compliment having sucked him dry of whatever strength he may have had. Not enough, however, to send him off into sweet oblivion. It was back to the between with him, drifting in and out like a leaf in a hurricane.
Forty minutes felt like forty years, then like forty seconds when he heard Rodney's relieved call of, “We're here!” The 'gate must have been dialed, because next Rodney was ordering a med-team to be waiting in the 'jumper bay, and to make sure the quarantine protocols were shut off.
Then, suddenly, the temperature took an abrupt dive. John cried out against the thousand blades of ice impaling his body. He was cold, so damn cold, and it hurt more than all the other pains: sharper, crueler, freezing every muscle until he could not longer move, let alone breathe.
“John, John!” he heard Teyla shout. Hands were rubbing up and down his arms, his chest, but that only incited the pain to harsher new levels.
“He's in shock.” Ronon, his voice a distant echo.
“I thought you said this illness was harmless?” a new voice – Keller.
“How the hell were we supposed to know he'd react like this to gate travel!” Rodney.
John stopped listening so he could focus on breathing. Not even the mask strapped to his face made any difference. He heard Keller order him to be moved, and winced when numerous hands lifted his body from the semi-soft surface to a very soft surface. Swift motion angered his sloshing stomach. He started to gag, and was rolled so he could heave without anything to show for it. Between the heaving, contraction of abused muscles, cold and lungs that hadn't received their required quota of air, John thankfully – finally – passed out.
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“Morning Colonel.”
John opened his eyes to a bright day pouring through the windows of his private wing of the infirmary. He rolled his head to the side, facing Nurse Carol baring a tray of breakfast: a bowl of cold cereal, thank goodness. He was swearing off oatmeal for a month.
“Sorry to wake you,” she said with a smile as sunny as the room, “but I didn't think you'd want to miss this. Dr. Keller has finally upgraded you to gentle solids.”
“Damn straight I wouldn't want to miss it,” John said, returning the smile.
Carol raised the bed and helped him get adjusted into a more upright position. “So how are you today? Any headaches, body aches?”
John rolled his shoulders, then his neck, testing the pull of muscles and joints. As had been the case for the past day and a half, there was stiffness, but nothing he would label as pain. The only reason he was still in the infirmary was because the city's last encounter with an alien disease had left Keller paranoid. She wasn't letting him go until she'd completed the vaccine, which, she promised, would be in a day or two. She'd had most of what she needed in Teyla's and Ronon's blood.
John smiled. “Nope, I'm good.”
Carol pushed the rolling tray over his lap. “Good. Dr. Keller wants to get you up and about a little longer today. So eat, you'll need it.” She left him to dine in private.
John poured the milk and dug into his cornflakes with relish. He usually liked his cereal with a little honey or sugar, or the sugar already added (He was raiding his stash of Trix and Froot Loops as soon as he was out of here) but compared to plain oatmeal, corn flakes were saturated with flavor.
Keller dropped by ten minutes after he finished to check his vitals then get him on his feet for a circuit around the infirmary. The quarantine portion of his illness had ended five days ago, and he'd been moved to the more remote corner of the infirmary to heal from the prolonged sickness in relative privacy and quiet. He didn't really remember much of any of it, just pain, cold, heat, cold, more pain, then a constant discomfort that only a drugged sleep could spare him from.
He did recall, vaguely, visits from his team: Teyla coaxing him into drinking a bitter tea that had calmed his stomach while leaving a persistently bitter aftertaste; Ronon doing the massage thing that made it easier to breathe; Rodney's diatribes about the obnoxious and mundane lulling John to sleep. Some of the visits may have been dreams, but not all of them. John knew his team, and knew that they had been by, at least once, when the quarantine had ended – more than once. Way more.
As promised, John's walk around the infirmary was longer, less of a shuffle and more of a natural walk. Keller herded him back to bed after the fourth circuit when his shoulders hunched and feet dragged. Tucked into bed, he napped until lunch, waking up to a ham sandwich and fruit juice. After his little meal, he grabbed his laptop by the bed, booted that RPG game Zelenka had uploaded for him, and e-mailed Rodney until the recalcitrant SOB finally agreed to play with much fanfare over the work he wasn't completing. Zelenka joined in two minutes later. An hour later, John had to call it quits when lethargy kept tugging at his eyelids. John set the laptop aside and settled into another nap until dinner.
Dinner was boiled chicken, vegetables, mash potatoes with neither butter nor gravy, and more juice.
“Is that all you're having? I thought Keller was trying to put some meat back on you, not take more off.”
John looked up from sculpting his potatoes into a perfect cube at to see Rodney standing at the foot of his bed, arms folded and one hand clutching three DVD boxes.
“Hence the bland stuff I'm less likely to puke up,” John said. He destroyed his potato cube by digging out a chunk of the center. “Deductive reasoning tells me you're not here to criticize my eating habits. What's up, McKay?”
Rodney uncrossed his arms. “Your deductive skills deserve a Kewpie doll. Ronon has declared tonight a movie night, and it's a big one.” He tossed the DVDs within John's reach. John spread them out along the edge of the bed: The new Batman, Superman and...
He chuffed a dry laugh. “Fantastic Four.”
“Rise of the Silver Surfer. All Ronon's idea. Makes me glad I didn't try discussing the finer points of slasher movies with him.”
“You hate slasher flicks.”
“Which makes me all the more glad I didn't bring any up, and you were too sick to.” Rodney launched into rearranging the room for their little get-together, pulling in chairs wherever he could find them, then confiscating John's laptop without asking to set up the first movie.
Ronon and Teyla arrived carrying a big bowl of popcorn. Rodney set the laptop at the end of the bed, forcing John to sit Indian style or risk kicking the machine off. He was only halfway through dinner, and happy to have something he could put in his mouth and chew, because the popcorn was damn tempting.
Teyla sat on one side of the bed, Ronon the other, and Rodney next to Ronon since he still didn't feel safe about the illness being past the contagious stage. They watched Fantastic Four first.
“I'd rather be the Silver Surfer guy,” Ronon said.
Rodney snorted. “ Why? He's a friggin' patsy. At least The Thing has some free will.”
“The Surfer’s got cooler powers,” Ronon countered.
“Well, yeah, but.... he's still a patsy.”
When John had all he could eat of his dinner, Ronon passed the tray off to Rodney, who looked at it, reached for a piece of chicken, jolted with the sudden realization of what he was about to do, then quickly set it on a nearby side-table.
“I believe I prefer the Human Torch's ability,” Teyla said ponderously. “More useful, I think.”
“Not if something tried to stun you,” said Ronon.
John rolled onto his side and curled into a configuration that kept his feet away from the laptop while allowing him to see the movie.
“If I was stranded someplace cold,” said Teyla.
“And you wouldn't have to hunt, shoot, and skin an animal,” added Rodney. “Just a quick char-broil and soup's on.”
Ronon's eyebrows arched in happy consideration. “Good point.”
Lethargy always seemed to follow eating. John didn't try to struggle against the pull of sleep; he knew he wouldn't win. He let his eyes flicker shut and the soft, murmuring current of his friends voices carry him away to a warm, floaty place.
“Argue it all you want, McKay,” said Ronon. “There's no way Batman can beat Superman.”
“What! No! Yes he can, he... you know what? Shut up.”
The End
A/N: Apologies for any inconsistencies with the 'jumper. I wasn't sure if 'jumpers had things like auto-pilot, if once the coordinates were set to a particular destination the 'jumper would continue in that direction (with piloting needed when said destination was reached) and so on. I'm assuming the 'jumper must have something that allows the pilot to step away even if just for a few minutes – say, if the trip was a long one. If not... well, then that's just cruel.
I've also read other stories where the 'jumper had “something” - whether auto-pilot or set-coordinates that kept it on course. Same goes with the bathroom. I know there's been debates on whether or not the 'jumpers have a bathroom. Based on the Defiant One, and for the sake of this story, I'm saying they do. Maybe someday I'll write a story where they don't. That would be rather interesting ;).
And I don't apologize for not making the illness more severe. This story was based on the road trips in my life. My dad was military, so we traveled around a lot. And let me tell you (if you don't already know) illnesses are many, many, many times worse when they occur while on the road, and that includes car-sickness.
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no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 06:35 am (UTC)From:I really enjoyed this and most of all the team comfort. I actually enjoyed the fact that it didn't turn 'deadly', doesn't have to be to feel like you want to die. You handled Ronon's techniques to help ease John's pain very well, those type of massages do help!
Adored the banter and all the super-hero talk, it made it feel real and flowed very well. I really needed this, so thank you!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 06:50 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2008-02-28 03:12 am (UTC)From:My favorite line was this:
"...pain was pain – weakness was weakness - no matter the source, and it was scary sometimes, even if you were good at pretending it wasn't.
Even if it wasn't your pain. Especially if it wasn't your pain."
That last part - especially if it wasn't your pain - So, so true. Thanks for sharing this story.
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Date: 2008-02-28 03:27 am (UTC)From:Rambling, sorry. Anyways, tricky-disease-creation aside, I really enjoyed writing this, and glad you liked it.
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Date: 2008-02-27 08:32 am (UTC)From:They could always have a 'jumper retro-fitted with a bathroom for long journeys. All I could think of was a bathroom in an old RV, so small you could barely turn around. And my stupid brother jigglig the accordion door... memories.
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Date: 2008-02-27 09:07 pm (UTC)From:Yep, been there.
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Date: 2008-02-27 12:51 pm (UTC)From: (Anonymous)Stargate Groupie
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Date: 2008-02-28 01:43 am (UTC)From:Ahem. LOVED the team banter. So spot on. And it still continued even though they were worried about John.
And I have to say, "Brillef the Mighty, he's very tidy...." started going through my head and has yet to quit. You're ... mean. =^.^=
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Date: 2008-02-28 03:18 am (UTC)From:Anyways, thanks. Glad you liked.
Mwhahahahahahahahaha!
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Date: 2008-02-28 03:19 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2008-02-28 04:10 am (UTC)From:Reminds me of coming home from my mom's one year (9 hour drive) with 3 sick kids puking and me trying not to. My sister had called the day after they left to warn us her kids had gotten sick and we were probably exposed. We got up the morning we were to leave and discovered that we were in for a long trip home.
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Date: 2008-02-28 04:34 am (UTC)From:*Winces* Oi.
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Date: 2008-02-28 04:44 am (UTC)From:no subject
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Date: 2008-02-28 04:45 am (UTC)From:;0)
Great story. Love the back-and-forth between Ronon and Rodney. LOVE the baby name/favorite name discussion (Winston. It is rather butler-esque). And poor Sheppard. The guy just never catches a break. :)
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Date: 2008-02-28 05:37 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2008-02-29 03:30 am (UTC)From:Now if they could just do something like this on the show.
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Date: 2008-02-29 03:46 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2008-03-04 09:18 pm (UTC)From:Lots of team love to be shared!
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Date: 2008-03-05 06:34 am (UTC)From:Yep, there's nothing like taking your health woes out on poor Shep. Some of his suffering was inspired by my obnoxious allergies, some by my mom and her nasty case of the flu, and the rest a pure desire for a miserable Sheppard. Poor boy.
Hope your ills are hitting the road. Ours have finally just started heading out.
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Date: 2008-07-27 07:17 pm (UTC)From:no subject
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Date: 2008-08-12 11:33 pm (UTC)From:I learned something from you fic and that there is a difference between whumping and sick. Newbie here!
Thanks for sharing this with me. Great job!