kriadydragon | Story - Measure of a Man

Title: Measure of a Man
Rating: T, Gen
Characters: Sheppard, Caldwell
Summary: Prompt provided by

kristen999, who suggested (and this is just the gist of the prompt) non A-hole Caldwell seeing Sheppard in a new, more positive light. I'd also like to give thanks to

alipeeps, who suggested a fic idea long, long ago that I am only now using along with kristen's idea.

A/N: I apologize in advance for any inconsistancies with canon. This takes place after Common Ground, and I personally don't recall any mention of the Daedalus - whether it was going back to earth or about to return. If it was mentioned, then I obviously wasn't paying attention. Shep-whump is, after all, quite distracting ;).

Measure of a Man

Steven Caldwell opened his eyes to darkness, and for a heart-stopping second thought he'd gone blind. A frantic glance proved him wrong when he spotted a thin shaft of light spilling down from somewhere overhead and to the left. He sighed in a relief that was short lived when he tried to move.

White-hot pain shot up his leg into his hip, making him cry out. For another breathless moment, all that existed was the pain. As it gradually ebbed, his body awoke to other, lesser sensations – aches, cold, and a cracking headache that was making it hard to think and recollect.

An emergency. There'd been an emergency. Something to do with one of the flooded sectors of Atlantis. The area had been in the process of being drained when something happened. Steven had been nearby – him and three others. He remembered running to help. They'd split off to cover more ground and... that was all his brain would cough up.

Steven forced one hand to feel out his surroundings. He touched metal, heard splashing, and when his hand thumped into something solid, he felt the length and shape of what could only be a girder. Slowly but surely his eyes began to adjust, defining more shapes within the darkness: girders, poles, debris – the kind of debris you find in a collapsed building.

“Damn it!” Steven hissed. He tried again to move, and again cried out when his leg shivered with agony. Apparently he hadn't been down here long enough for the water to numb it. When the pain passed leaving him shaking and breathless, he brought his trembling hand to the comm at his ear.

“At-Atlantis. This is Colonel Caldwell, do you copy?”

He was met with static, so tried again. “Atlantis, this is Colonel Caldwell, do you copy?”

Still nothing. With a frustrated huff, Steven dropped his hand into the water and tilted his head back against the beam behind him. Either the comm was busted, the collapse had screwed with communications or this part of Atlantis was shielded. Not that it mattered, because adding to the irony was the fact that it would be another two days before the Daedalus' transporter was repaired. The damn thing had been on the fritz for four days and Caldwell wasn't going to risk people losing an arm or a leg using it. So he was probably going to be down here for a while.

With a jolt, as though waking up to realize he'd slept in, Caldwell remembered that he was supposed to accost Sheppard at dinner, today. He'd been wanting to discuss with the Lt. Colonel the decision to let a wraith walk free. Sheppard had been a ghost since Caldwell had arrived, impossible to reach by comm per Beckett's orders and to talk one on one with without his team hovering close by. And Elizabeth was being impossibly stubborn about letting “just anyone” - Colonel or not - see the videos of Sheppard's capture. The woman was too quick to jump to negative conclusions, and was a practical pitbull if she thought Steven was so much as giving Sheppard a crooked look.

Caldwell understood why, he really did. Sheppard had been tortured only yesterday, his team and most of the control room had been forced to witness it, and that was bound to make anyone feel a little extra protective. But that didn't change the fact that an enemy had been allowed to walk away.

Steven snorted. He couldn't believe he was chomping at the bit over security matters when he was trapped in a hole with a broken leg and possible concussion. Although maybe it was the concussion making him chomp over anything but his current situation. After all, at the extreme moment it wasn't as if there were anything he could do about it, not until the water deadened the pain in his leg – hopefully before hypothermia set in.

Or he drowned. He couldn't see it, but he could certainly hear the steady splash of water coming in from two – no, three, maybe even more – sources. He could only hope that it was the last vestiges of water trickling away from the once flooded supper level and not another source.

Steven moved his legs carefully, just not careful enough to keep the lesser pain from making him grunt. The cold was numbing the limb slower than it was numbing his body, and Caldwell estimated it would be at least an hour before rescue located him. He was going to have to start dragging himself to higher ground, pain or not.

One problem at a time. Bracing himself upright with one hand, he inched forward, reaching with his other hand down his leg to the center of his calf. Even a light touch made him wince, but there was no protrusion of bone, not even a lump, which was a small fortune that was better than nothing. Easing himself back, he let out a relieved breath, then shifted focus to the next problem – moving himself.

Twisting, he gripped the girder with both hands, gritted his teeth, pulled and coughed up a choked shout when his leg flared. “Damn it!”

“Hello?”

Caldwell froze. The call had come from his left. Craning his neck, he caught the flicker of a flashlight beam dancing over the water and debris. His estimate on rescue, obviously, had been wrong, and that made him smile.

“Over h-here!” he shouted through chattering teeth.

“Colonel Caldwell?”

Steven knew that voice. Even distorted by distance and reverberations, he would know that slightly nasal tone anywhere, and for once had never been happier to hear it. “Sheppard! How the hell did you get down here so fast?”

“I was in the neighborhood.” The Lt. Colonel's voice and his splashing grew nearer every second. “Closest to the scene, and I know this sector.” The flashlight's beam settled spasmodically on Caldwell. “It wasn't easy getting in, though. Getting out's probably going to be a bitch. The whole area is flooded and I think it might be filling up.”

“Thought as much,” Steven said. He couldn't see Sheppard, but was able to mark his progress through sound. Water splashed and lapped against his sides when the Lt. Colonel finally arrived and crouched, passing the light's beam from Steven's shoulders to his legs.

“I'm guessing something' wrong and it's keeping you from moving to higher ground,” he said.

“Right leg, below the knee,” Steven replied. “I think it's broken.”

The water undulated when Sheppard moved to Steven's other side, settling the beam on his calf. “Doesn't look like anything's sticking out.”

“I checked. Not even a lump.”

“Good, then I can splint it.” The light darted away to bob and flicker over debris. There was a satisfied “yes!” followed by splashing and the clank of metal against metal.

“Sir, I need you to hold the light for a moment,” Sheppard said. “Keep it on your leg.”

Steven took the flashlight, angling it to create the widest possible circle of illumination. The wan light exaggerated the pallor of John's face to pure white, deepening the shadows under his eyes that seemed sunken into his skull. He doubted Sheppard had been in the water as long as himself, but the younger man was already starting to shiver.

It didn't inspire any confidence. Sheppard had been looking increasingly sickly throughout the day whenever Steven managed to spot him – pale and exhausted yet jumpy, barely concealed by his pathetic mask of nonchalance. Beckett had said that he wouldn't be a surprised if Sheppard ended up sick. Restoration or not (Steven was still reeling over the knowledge of a Wraith being able to undo the feeding damage) the stress of capture, torture, escape, multiple feedings and a whole day without food and water was going to have consequences, such as a suddenly fickle immune system.

Steven eyed the Lt. Colonel suspiciously. Despite shaking hands, Sheppard still managed finesse when tying the rods to Steven's leg, preventing pain. When done, he sat back on his haunches to eye his handiwork, and wiped beads of moisture from his brow.

If Sheppard's condition really was deteriorating as Beckett surmised, then he'd not only put himself in danger, but also who ever happened to be the one to find them and rescue two people instead of one.

“Feeling okay, Colonel?” Steven asked.

Sheppard looked at him quizzically. “Fine. Why?”

Steven shook his head. “Nothing.” Now wasn't the time for lectures about thinking before acting.

Sheppard shuffled close enough to pull Steven's arm across his shoulders. “Come on, let's get moving before the water gets any higher.”

So intent on watching Sheppard bind his leg that Steven hadn't noticed the water now lapping at stomach level, tapping his flanks with smaller pieces of debris. Sheppard pulled Caldwell up, taking most of his weight, and with grunts and a short, pained yelp, Steven was upright on one shaky leg that was barely supporting him.

“This way,” Sheppard breathlessly said. “Not far.” John sloughed through the water and Steven hobbled, focused on keeping his gelatinous knee locked. They skirted hills of shattered consoles and walls, and ducked beneath girders that groaned as though promising that they would, eventually, fall.

“Been hearing... that you've been... looking for me,” Sheppard panted. “To talk.”

“I think... under the circumstances... it can wait,” Steven grunted.

“Just... trying to pass the time.”

“Maybe we should... concentrate on breathing.”

There was a shriek like metal tearing through metal, followed by an ear-punching clang, then a rain of lesser debris pelted their shoulders and head. Sheppard pushed Steven to the nearest wall and shielded him against it until the crash and clatter stopped.

Sheppard looked up at the ceiling, passing his light over it, and said with a nervous chuckle, “Well, that could have ended worse.”

“Let's not give it a second chance, then,” Steven said. He pushed away from the wall, and the two resumed their trudging/hopping. They were closer to their destination according to the faint blue-gray light exposing the details of the obstacle course. Steven could almost see the serrated edge of an opening in the ceiling.

Then Sheppard slowed. Steven felt the other man's shoulders drop. “Oh crap.”

“What?” Steven said.

They slowly circled the hole several meters above them and about five feet in diameter. Blue-gray light encompassed the pile of girders, consoles, pillars, pipes and wires directly beneath it. Sheppard moved them closer to the pile and kicked at a girder.

“This was how I got down. Damn thing must have slid free and fell.”

“Is there another way?”

Sheppard shook his head. “All the other holes were either too small or there was too much crap to squeeze through.” He released Steven's wrist long enough to tap his Comm. “McKay, this is Sheppard, do you copy? I found Colonel Caldwell. His leg's busted and he's freezing but otherwise fine.” John sighed heavily. “I consider him alive and able to stand fine, McKay. Stop changing the damn subject. Listen, we're kind of trapped down here...” he scowled. “What do you mean you knew that would happen?” His scowl deepened. “Oh come on! Don't you think the fact that I'm still alive kind of refutes that? My luck does not suck... Rodney... Rodney... McKay! Just shut up for a minute so I can say something. We're at the north-east end of this sector, right under the largest hole. We'll need ropes, a harness...” Sheppard arched his head back. “What the hell do you mean we have to wait? We can't wait. The water level's rising and the whole place is unstable...” Then he arched an eyebrow. “When did that happen? Okay, okay, just get here as soon as you can. Sheppard out.”

“What's happened?” Steven asked. The look on Sheppard's face was both weary and sheepish, and he gave Steven a side-ways glance like a kid bracing for a nasty reprimand.

“Well,” he said, then cleared his throat. “It seems that in an attempt to get to a group trapped behind a room sealed off for no reason, they somehow managed to close the door to this section and... can't get it open... yet. But knowing McKay, it'll only be a matter of time. Five minutes at least, twenty tops. They have to take it slow or else risk sealing someone else in.”

Steven looked skeptically down at the water now encircling his waist. “Colonel, I highly doubt we have twenty minutes.”

“Look,” Sheppard said, moving Steven to a console sticking out of the pile and carefully setting him down on its charred surface. “This is a pretty high garbage hill, so we have high ground in case we're here until the water reaches our necks. If worse comes to worse, we can use the water to our advantage and let it carry us to the top.”

Steven raised both eyebrows in tempered alarm. “You're seriously considering that?”

Sheppard held up a finger. “If worse comes to worse, like I said. Hopefully it won't come to that.” He removed his tac-vest then jacket, handing both to Steven. “Put these on. Not much, but better than nothing.”

Steven slipped them on, never taking his eyes off Sheppard who began scaling the debris pile to get out of the water and search for stable areas. Sometimes it was hard to decide whether to question Sheppard's judgment calls or respect them; see them as idiocy, lunacy, or brilliance; dislike the man or admire him. The Lt. Colonel, not in top form, clamors down a hole without waiting for back-up, yet if he hadn't come the room would have been sealed, shutting all help out, and Steven would still be on the floor with the water-line over his head.

And yet drowning was still a vicious possibility in their future.

There's a fine line between genius and madness, as the saying went – obviously. Sheppard's actions had been reckless, dangerous and necessary, and Steven sure as hell couldn't fault him for it – let alone berate him for it, either. Steven would be dead by now if Sheppard hadn't come. It seemed the story of the man's command-life on Atlantis – he pulls crazy, insane, ridiculous stunts and they work... sometimes.

But Sheppard had allied himself with a wraith. A wraith, who not only stayed loyal to that partnership, but restored to Sheppard the years that had been taken from him. It seemed impossible that one man should have that kind of endless, last-minute luck. Which always made Steven wonder, and worry over, how much longer it would last. A man only survived by the skin of his teeth for so long.

What truly bothered and worried Steven, though, was the admiration that that kind of pseudo survival earned: the loyalty, the hero-worship. Steven saw it shining in the eyes of every marine Sheppard commanded. Sheppard survives what shouldn't be survived, and suddenly he's a modern day Hercules. Steven couldn't deny it's benefit toward morale, but once Sheppard's luck turned its back on him, then what? When Sheppard turned out to be infallible (he let the damn wraith go, after all) what would become of that morale? That kind of crushed hope could be dangerous.

Steven started from his thoughts in surprise when he was gripped by the armpits.

“Need to get you to higher ground, Colonel,” Sheppard said, groaning as he hauled Steven to his feet onto the console's surface. Sheppard's arms were trembling by the time he had Steven's arm across his shoulders. The going was precarious and slow as they picked their way over semi-level surfaces where they could find them. They didn't go far – just three feet above the water – when Sheppard finally set Steven down on the edge of a metal beam.

Sheppard dropped next to him, panting, shaking and even more pale. Steven could hear a slight wheeze to his breathing even above the repetitive slap of falling water.

“Sheppard?” he said.

Sheppard coughed and waved him off. “I'm good.”

“Why do I doubt that?”

Slender as Sheppard was, the man was young, healthy, and even carrying Steven over uneven debris shouldn't have left him so winded.

“I'll be fine,” Sheppard said with a kind of airy finality meant to end the matter without being disrespectful about it. Steven let it go, because pointing the problem out wasn't going to fix anything.

Besides, now that they were out of the water and being forced to wait, Steven felt it as good a time as any to have that “talk.” The circumstance may not have been ideal – and would probably make Steven come across as being coldly tactless – but if he waited too long then Beckett would have them both under his care, possibly sedated, with Sheppard's team on guard, and Steven might never get another chance.

“I wanted to talk to you about the wraith, Colonel.”

Sheppard looked at him with brow furrowed.

“That's why I've been looking for you,” Steven clarified. “I want to talk about this wraith you teamed up with and let go.”

Sheppard's expression went neutral, and he leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. “What's there to talk about? I was a prisoner, he was a prisoner; we were both being tortured; we both hated Kolya... it was a match made in heaven.”

“But you still saw fit to let him go.”

“We had a deal.” John's gaze darkened. “And I like to think of myself as a man of honor who makes promises and keeps them. Besides, it's not like I divulged any matters of national security to him. Kind of hard to when I'm gagged one minute and trying to ignore all the arthritis pains the next.”

Steven sighed sharply, opting for silence until he was able to pool his calm. This was why it was hard to respect Sheppard at times – all the flippancy, the way he locked up and the way he managed to be defensive without crossing the line into insubordination. It was a moment before Steven was able to speak again.

“Look, Colonel. I'm not trying to make accusations, I'm simply trying to understand the reasons behind allowing the enemy to go free. He helped you, yes. He saved you, I understand that. But that doesn't change the fact that he's one of the enemy.”

“I know that,” Sheppard stated flatly. “But what you need to understand is that, at the time, he wasn't the biggest threat. Kolya was. All that Wraith wanted to do was go home, just like me. When we talked, going home was all we talked about. All that mattered was getting the hell out of there.”

Steven's next question he already regretted before it was out of his mouth. “What if it had been a suicide bomber? An insurgent? Someone you knew for a fact was going to make for the nearest road or base and blow up the first American tank they saw?”

Sheppard snorted. “Then I would have shot him before he shot me.”

“You know what I'm trying to say, Colonel.”

“I know I...” Sheppard exhaled a long breath that seemed to deflate his body, making him seem smaller, world-weary, and more ill. “He was the lesser of two evils and... it had nothing to with who was in the right or the wrong at the time. The reason the Wraith are the bad-guy is because their food source just happens to be us. This was about survival. With the wraith, that's all it's been about. Lion versus zebra – that kind of crap. Except we're smart enough to know when we need to focus on fighting the bigger predator instead of each other.”

Sheppard turned his face away. “And I didn't want to die. Not by Kolya's hand. And not... not that way.” When he turned back to stare down at the water lapping at their boots, his gaze was glazed and, Steven could have sworn, almost frightened.

“I never thought anything could hurt that bad,” Sheppard muttered. His hand drifted toward his chest, only to stop inches from it, hovering as though reluctant to make contact. Then he flinched and returned his elbow to his knee. “I did what I had to do. I knew what I was doing.”

Sheppard's answer wasn't exactly satisfying in terms of what the SGC or military would want, but there was really nothing left to ask, so Steven let the matter drop. As necessary as it was to understand what had happened and the influence behind the decisions made, Steven knew when to push and when to back off, at least, for the time being: because he hadn't been there, and he had plenty of experience with rocks and hard places to know that you don't make snap-assumptions about situations you hadn't witnessed for yourself.

Steven sometimes found himself worrying about Sheppard: dropped into another galaxy because he had the right genes, and thrust into command because of circumstance, bad timing and rank. He'd heard from Landry who had heard from General O'Niel that Sheppard's first response when asked to join the expedition was “no.” The younger man had, literally, not asked for any of this, and yet here he was – having only been tortured yesterday, and sitting on a pile of rubble about to be buried underwater today.

Steven wondered how he did it, and also wondered if there were days when he could barely handle it. Sheppard was the picture of misery next to him, hunched, shivering and coming down with something if he hadn't already.

When the water was ankle high, Sheppard moved them a foot higher. He activated his comm every five minutes, asking for updates on McKay's progress and letting everyone know they were still alive.

“Damn it, McKay! What the hell is taking so long?” Sheppard barked, his controlled anger tainted by an undertone of desperation. “Maybe you need to try another door, then... What about shutting down power? Is it possible to reboot everything?” Sheppard sighed. “So in other words it'll only make things worse. Fine, just - just keep at it. Sheppard out.”

The water soon forced them to the very top of the debris, and McKay was still no closer to figuring out what the hell was wrong with the doors.

“He'll figure it out,” Sheppard promised. “He always does.”

“At the last possible minute?” Steven asked bitterly.

Sheppard gave him a sheepish, crooked smile. “That's usually the routine.”

Steven shook his head. “Colonel, you do know that there will come a time when McKay won't figure it out, right?”

“I'd be inclined to agree but I've yet to see that happen. He'll figure it out, and we've always got plan B if he doesn't do it in time.” Though Sheppard sounded about as thrilled of plan B as Steven felt.

They were forced to stand when the water level came to their waists while sitting, with no place left to climb. The level continued to rise, past their knees, back around their waists, and still no progress on McKay's end.

“McKay, I don't care what you have to do. Cut a hole through the damn door or blow it up. Do something because the damn water's almost to our chests and I don't think Colonel Caldwell knows how to swim one-legged.” He rolled his eyes. “Just hurry up, McKay.”

“What's the problem now?”

Sheppard shook his head helplessly. “They tried cutting through the doors but they've barely made a dent, and when they tried to blow another set of doors, still no dent. McKay thinks this section may have been the equivalent of a bomb shelter or something, probably in case the city gets boarded.”

“Certainly didn't stand up to the test of time too well.”

Sheppard shrugged. “I think the Ancients were expecting bullets and bombs, not sea-water.”

The water was to their shoulders, and Steven could barely stay upright.

“I've got an idea. Grab my shoulders and hang on,” Sheppard said, turning his back to Steven.

Steven did as told and was pulled along by Sheppard as the Lt. Colonel swam to a girder propped against the wall, giving them something to hang on to. When the water buried it, Sheppard pulled him to the only other beam not yet below the water line, with only a foot left to cling to.

Then it was swallowed, and there was no holding on without their mouths being below the water. Steven instinctively kicked, going under when not even his numb leg could stop all the pain. Sheppard pulled him out of the water by his shirt each time, then wrapped his arms around his chest, holding him up, most likely, by bracing his feet against the beam. The impossible footing and Sheppard's exhaustion made him the one to go under over and over as he struggled to keep Steven's head out of the water.

“Sheppard! Just let go. There's no sense in the both of us drowning.”

Sheppard went under and reemerged with a sputtering gasp. “I'll... I'll swim us to another beam.”

“And exhaust yourself so that you won't be able to swim us back to the hole?”

Steven felt Sheppard go under again, and he didn't come up.

“Sheppard!” Reaching into the water for Sheppard's shirt brought Steven down. He opened his eyes to see Sheppard's hands alternating between pushing Steven up and clawing weakly toward the surface. Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, Steven heaved upward until he heard the muffled splash of Sheppard's head breaking the surface for less than a second before he was under again and Steven was forced to go up and suck in a lung-full.

When he went back under, he saw no air bubbles escaping Sheppard's mouth. The younger man hadn't been up long enough to take a breath, and he was sinking. Pain be damned, Steven reached for him.

Then a large, dark mass blocked Steven's view of Sheppard, and strong hands grabbed him from behind, pulling him up. He gasped when his head broke the water, and he sagged into the hands pulling him toward the hole. He turned his head to see Ronon carrying a limp Sheppard in one arm as his other arm swept through the water.

Harnesses were attached and both men were pulled to the surface. Steven moved his head, craning his neck to keep Sheppard in sight, watching as an ambubag was place over the Lt. Colonel's face and air pumped into his lungs. He barely felt the blanket being draped over him, and started in alarm when the gurney lifted and snapped into place. As he was wheeled away, his last sight was of Sheppard's body convulsing as he coughed up water.

------------------------------------

Having a broken leg meant having a lot of time to kill, but Steven was never one to be idle with his time. He asked, one more time, to see the live feed of Sheppard's torture, appealing to Elizabeth's concern for John by promising to be a character witness in case the SGC decided to take action against Sheppard's decision – and he couldn't do that if he didn't have at least a basic understanding of what Sheppard had gone through. With a little bit of pissed-off reluctance, Elizabeth finally granted the request.

Steven was both horrified and amazed by what he watched, and he found himself respecting Sheppard more than he ever had. The man was... impossibly resilient.

The moment he was able to cajole the use of a wheelchair, he dropped by Sheppard's neck of the infirmary. According to Beckett, inhaling all that water had exacerbated what should had been a cold into pneumonia. Added to it was complete exhaustion that had kept the younger man unconscious for the better part of three days.

Steven had the nurse stop after wheeling him around the partition. Sheppard was awake and sitting upright, with a nasal cannula under his nose and pillows supporting him. He was still sickly, pale, sunken-eyed and lethargic with lingering fatigue, but keeping up with the conversation of his team who surrounded him.

Sheppard almost drowned saving Steven, and Steven wouldn't be here if Sheppard hadn't come. It was just that simple, even though it felt anything but simple. Steven had to wonder if it were more of that luck that could so easily run out at any time, or that resilience – the stubborn will to never succumb, whether it be to death or a mad man – that Steven had seen so blatantly on the video feeds. Or maybe it was a matter of faith: in his team and in doing what needed to be done, even if luck finally decided to look the other away, or it meant making temporary friends with one enemy just to spite another enemy.

Maybe all three. Whatever the case, Steven was starting to suspect that his worry might be a little misplaced. This man was pretty damn capable of taking care of himself, and others, and had a team that would take care of him when he couldn't.

Steven signaled the nurse with a wave to continue on toward the bed. He had a Lt. Colonel to thank for saving his ass.

The End