//
This story is completed
By Gaia
Minerva McGonagall sighed, limping slowly along the corridor. She was getting too old for this. She loved her job, she really did. Not even the most difficult of students and several barrels of exploding slugs could make her want to quit. But after the war, she was just so tired. Too tired.
Minerva stopped at the end of the corridor, facing the old stone gargoyle. Even though there was no one else in the corridor, she took a moment to arrange herself.
"Treacle tart," she commanded wearily, but instead of stepping aside, the gargoyle stood up, straighter than she thought gargoyles could stand, a small scroll of parchment appearing in one clawed hand.
"Thank you," Minerva said. Just because it was a big stone gargoyle really was no reason to be rude.
The gargoyle bowed and stepped aside, revealing a stone staircase, rotating slowly upwards.
Minerva took the parchment with her up the steps. Even now the office felt like someone else's, like she was just squatting, even though such a thing was certainly quite far beneath her.
"Go ahead, Minerva, open it," said the most prominent of the pictures on the wall.
"Useful advice as always, Albus." In all her time occupying this office, Dumbledore's portrait had refused to say anythingof actual use. Minerva wasn't stupid – she knew why. He didn't want her to depend on him, regardless of how much a simple ‘you're making the right choice, Minerva' would have helped.
"I do my best, Minerva. I do my best."
She gave him a wry little smile before opening the parchment.
Minerva had seen a lot of things in her day, from screaming spitballs to the death of too many good young people, but still, her hands shook, grasping the small piece of harmless parchment. "He's alive?" she whispered.
On the wall, a very wise wizard nodded gravely. He had known all along.
Anyone who knew about Atlantis could tell you about Colonel John Sheppard – especially Rodney McKay, and he would be the first to tell you that. Anyone unable to locate John would automatically call Rodney; anyone hoping to get John to do them a favor would try to get advice from Rodney first; hell, they were even the co-owners of the base's only Playstation 3 - which, by the standards of emotionally-closed-off Air Force Colonels and abrasive and anti-social astrophysicists, was practically the commitment-equivalent of marriage.
Except it wasn't.
Rodney McKay sighed, scooting closer to the warm body next to his. His . . . yes, it was his. Rodney smiled, pulling the body closer. It wasn't as soft as a pillow, but firm . . . and comforting as home. In a haze of post-orgasm sleep, Rodney pulled himself further up the body until he felt a warm gust of breath against his face, then lowered his lips down to a chapped smile.
The lips opened for him, and Rodney grinned into them, letting his tongue map out unfamiliar territory, even as he felt a familiar swelling against his thigh.
"John . . ." Rodney breathed into the kiss, grinding his hips down with a gentle thrust. He felt cocooned in heat, the sense of home as stirring as the slight friction.
The hips beneath him shifted, thrusting up quietly to scrape against Rodney's. "Oh yeah," he moaned, deepening the kiss.
And then the lips pulled away from his.
Though he might later deny it, Rodney made a whimpering sound.
The hips beneath his stilled and Rodney's eyes snapped open. Oh god. What had he done? "John?"
He was looking down into shocked hazel eyes. "Rodney? What . . ."
"Sorry, sorry," Rodney stammered. "I didn't mean to . . ." He'd broken their rule – their one and only rule. It was anything goes, as long as there was no kissing. John said that anything could be two friends helping each other out, as long as there was no kissing. He didn't think John would punch him or anything – he wasn't so hypocritical as to condemn people for doing lovingly what they did practically every day for fun.
John sat up, back ramrod straight, even as he scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Hey, don't worry about it. You were asleep, right?" The answer was so distant that Rodney almost wished John had hit him.
Rodney nodded.
"I'm just going to . . ." John indicated the door, already searching the floor for his pants.
No, wait, that wasn't right. Them kissing . . . that had been right. Rodney hadn't felt that at home since before he could barely remember – back when his mother used to sit him on her lap and read to him, weaving whole worlds with just the soft whisper of her voice.
"John . . . wait." They were close, weren't they? They cared about each other. They were best friends. And they were fucking. How was that different from a relationship?
John struggled into his pants, falling over and nearly cracking his head open on the corner of Rodney's bed.
"Jesus, John. Are you okay?"
John let out a nervous guffaw, looking distant and pensive even in the dim lighting. "Yeah." He picked himself up, pulling his pants the rest of the way on, and sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots. He looked at Rodney over his shoulder, grinning mischievously. "I meant to do that."
Rodney snorted. "Yeah, right. And they meant to sink the Titanic."
"Well, it wouldn't have been half as famous if it hadn't sunk, would it?" John waggled his eyebrows before pulling his shirt over his head. "We wouldn't have been graced with the honor of seeing good ole Leo sink to his icy grave."
"No, but that doesn't mean . . . hey . . ." Rodney gulped, grabbing for the hem of John's shirt. "Stay," he looked pointedly at John's waning erection.
John smiled impishly, even though it didn't reach his eyes. He reached out to ruffle Rodney's hair, putting more distance between them with that single gesture than all of his annoyed head-slaps. "As much as I'd like to finish what you just started," he gestured to the clock, "shift change in five minutes."
Rodney sighed. "Yes, yes, I know, and then you turn into a pumpkin."
"See you tomorrow."
"Yeah," Rodney flopped back against the covers. "See you."
Maybe when he came to Atlantis, Rodney might have missed the melancholy look in John's eyes, the evasive way he always seemed to avoid talking about this . . . whatever it was between them. Except Rodney had grown to know John Sheppard all too well – well enough to know that if he didn't confront John about it, they'd just slip slowly apart in exactly the same way John did with all of the women he'd sleep with but conveniently forget to break up with. For God's sake, he'd even made Elizabeth break up with that Mara girl for him, and over a wormhole, too!
Rodney wasn't going to let himself become another one of John's Bond-girls – here today, gone tomorrow with a wave and jovial ‘so long,' if that. What he and John had wasn't just something you threw away when it got too close for comfort. It was worth fighting for, at the very least.
It was the darkest of the dark of night, a kind of darkness that most human beings never see. Sergeant Ali Harris wasn't particularly surprised, however. He'd been stationed down here for the past six months – long enough to barely notice the daylong darkness.
Sergeant Harris looked out the window yet again. If he were the kind of man who questioned orders (which he wasn't) he'd wonder what exactly he was supposed to be guarding – nothing could survive out here on the ice in the dead of winter.
Well, almost nothing.
There was a knock on the door, a rather loud knock. Sergeant Harris pulled his P90 closer to his chest, creeping forward to the thick metal door and the Plexiglas plate. Looking outside, he could see a man in a thick black cloak, shifting from foot to foot impatiently and not looking cold in the slightest. For a second Harris paused, remembering Anubis from several years earlier, but then the man pulled his hood back, revealing a slightly bewildered-looking Dr. Lee.
Dr. Lee? He wasn't scheduled to fly in from Christchurch until tomorrow. This must be urgent. Someone was probably trying to destroy the planet again.
Harris scrambled forward, lowering his weapon and undoing the locks.
"Dr. Lee, Sir?" Harris asked, going to attention. He was finally getting transferred to Atlantis on the next supply run, it wouldn't do to make a fool of himself in front of one of the SGC's bigwigs.
Dr. Lee shivered a bit, shucking his ridiculous black cloak to reveal a threadbare grey suit beneath. "Good evening, Sergeant . . . Harris," he said. "How goes it this fine night?"
Harris frowned a bit. He didn't remember Dr. Lee sounding so proper from their brief encounter at the SGC, though in all fairness the man had been a little preoccupied trying to microwave a Ding Dong. "Fine, Sir. I wasn't informed that you were arriving early."
Lee motioned him away. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry about that. There were some errors with the schedule – a storm, you see. My bro . . . er . . . my plane was almost blown away by the gale! But I have urgent business to attend to. Very urgent," Lee looked around, before reaching into a pocket and pulling out . . . was that a hip flask? Harris certainly wouldn't have figured the balding little scientist for the type, but it was always the quiet ones, wasn't it? "You wouldn't be able to direct me to Colonel John Sheppard, would you?"
Colonel Sheppard? "Um . . . I assume he's still on Atlantis, sir."
"Atlantis? Really?" Lee seemed almost fascinated. Maybe he was drunk. Then again, Harris didn't smell any booze.
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, let's go get him, eh?" Lee wrapped an arm around Harris' back (or at least he would have had he been about two feet taller).
"Um . . . Sir . . . we'd have to go through the Gate for that. You know, back in Colorado?"
"Colorado? I was just bloody in Colorado. How hard can it be to find one man?" he muttered. "And muggles are supposed to be known for their record-keeping machines."
Harris didn't know what a ‘muggle' was, but it didn't bode well for his promotion. "The official records say that Colonel Sheppard is stationed here, Sir. You know, because they can't list him as stationed off planet." Harris winced. He didn't want to insult the man, but really, with how much he seemed to have been drinking . . . "Maybe you were looking in the wrong database by accident, Sir?"
Dr. Lee seemed to squint peculiarly at that. "Off-planet? How interesting. Well, Mr. Harris, I fancy a cuppa tea, if I don't say so myself. Would you care to join me?"
Tea? They had tea? As far as Harris knew, Dr. McKay had completely filled the hot-beverage order list with coffee the last time he was here and nobody had ever bothered to change it back. "Um . . . I'm on duty, Sir."
Lee looked at him suspiciously. "Oh, of course." He then reached into the folds of his black robe and withdrew . . . a china teapot. "Pass me that green bottle of yours, Mr. Harris. There you are."
The tea felt warm and soothing going down Harris' throat. It tasted like he imagined happiness might.
Lee took another sip from his flask. He was going all brilliant and fuzzy around the edges. Harris squinted.
"So why don't you tell me all about this Atlantis then, Mr. Harris?"
"Dids you bring chocolate?" the little blonde brat asked the second Rodney stepped through the Gate.
Standing beside him, John just turned and smiled, aviator glasses hiding the truth in his eyes. "See, McKay, the kids still love you."
Rodney sighed, glad that he at least came prepared for this. He opened the duffel he brought with him and pulled out a Snickers bar. He had a couple more cases labeled as fissile material on the next Daedalus run, so there was no need to worry.
"Lucky me."
Also luckily for him, the kids had spotted Ronon, who was like the big growling papa bear of Toyland. The blonde girl grabbed the Snickers bar and immediately latched onto Ronon's leg.
Rodney would have thought that being a seven foot tall terrifying warrior man not civilized enough to use even the most user-friendly flatware would have made Ronon completely R-rated, but it in fact succeeded in making him even more child friendly.
"Hey, McKay, why don't you and Teyla go check out the power source? I'm going to go see how Keras is doing. Ronon, you . . ." John looked over at Ronon and the five children already clinging to him and said, "you just keep up the good work, buddy."
"Be careful, there are dangerous things in there," Ronon said to the little girl hanging off his shoulder and reaching for his hair. The girl just giggled.
"I don't think he's child-proof," Rodney commented under his breath.
Teyla smiled, accompanying him in the direction of the shield emitter. "Ronon is admirable with the young ones, is he not?" She had that dazed sort of wistful look on her face that all women seemed to get the second it looked like any man might be willing to wake up even a single night to tend to a crying baby. Oddly, the look seemed to resemble the look most men got when they saw a sale on steaks and power tools.
"Oh, come on, Teyla, you of all people are not going to get all mushy because the Neanderthal can handle small people in his giant hands without crushing them, are you?"
"There is nothing wrong with being kind to children, Rodney. Just because you do not wish to be a father does not mean that you should . . ."
"Hold on, Teyla, who said I didn't want to be a father?" Sure, Rodney wasn't ever going to win any gold stars for parenting, unless they gave awards for heaving emotional baggage lifting. But he was a particularly brilliant man; it would be a shame to not pass on his genes, assuming he could find a suitably intelligent partner.
Teyla stumbled over that just a bit. "I am sorry, Rodney. I did not mean to assume. It is simply that you constantly claim to ‘hate the little monsters.' And your . . . choice in bedmates does not seem particularly conducive to . . ."
"Choice of bedmates?! Teyla . . ."
"Perhaps you are aware of medical techniques that my people are not, but I did not believe it possible for two men to conceive a child."
"Two men . . . Teyla . . ." Rodney stuttered, pushing aside the vines that surrounded the alcove containing the shield emitter.
"Surely you and John do not plan to start a family," Teyla explained in her ‘bow at my infinite patience' voice.
"Well . . . no, but who says we couldn't? And how do you know about us anyhow?" Rodney tried not to panic – Teyla always noticed things that you'd have to beat most people over the head with before they understood. Everything was a-okay, nothing to worry about here.
Teyla raised her eyebrows in that way that meant that if she were from Earth she would be rolling her eyes. "It is quite obvious to us all."
But they were careful. Neither of them had ever been caught leaving the other's quarters. In a fit of paranoia Rodney had even bugged the city's security system to stop tracking them at John's mental command. "How could you . . ."
Teyla sighed, taking Rodney's hand from where he'd stretched it out to open the ZedPM casing. "Rodney, the both of you are dear to us, of course we would note such a deepening of your relationship."
Woah, woah, woah, since when were they using the r-word? "But we're just friends with benefits, Teyla, hardly grounds to start a family."
"If that is what you would prefer to call it, Rodney. You must know that if you ever truly desired children, I would do my best to find you a suitable surrogate."
She wasn't serious, was she? They weren't even at the point where they could kiss each other (even in private). How did Teyla get from there to discussion of gross things like pregnancy and birth and . . . Rodney was getting nauseous just thinking about it.
"We're . . . um . . . not anywhere close to that stage, Teyla. But . . . um . . . thanks." Rodney tried studiously to stop his hands from shaking so he wouldn't drop the ZedPM. Elizabeth was already mad at him over that whole incident with the botanists and the ventilation system, better to not provoke her.
"You are welcome, Rodney. I do have a question, however."
"Sure," Rodney said nervously. There really never was a time in which those words out of Teyla's mouth turned out to be a good. The last time had been to request an explanation of why the Marines thought that only a single piece of her ass was hot.
"Ronon heard from Lieutenant Cadman that your world has a policy about 'hear no evil, speak no evil', and I was wondering if you could explain it to me?"
"Hear no . . . Oh, you mean ‘Don't Ask, Don't Tell?'"
Teyla nodded.
"First of all, it's not our world. Just certain backwards countries and their pea-brained militaries, like the one that Sheppard happens to belong to. They don't like gay people . . . people who have sex with people of the same gender. Stupid, I know, but what do you expect from people who think that American football is a real sport? Obviously they don't have enough brain cells left to realize that gay people can fight just as well, if not better than, your stereotypical brain-dead jock from Nebraska. Anyhow, ‘Don't Ask, Don't Tell' just means that if you happen to be in the military and gay, nobody else can know about it."
"Oh," Teyla said, pausing to look pensive. "It is because of this that you and John have not yet performed a bonding ceremony?"
Okay . . . marriage. Just as scary. God, Teyla's people must sure move fast if they expected Rodney to get from fuckbuddy to fiancé in that short a time. Not even reality TV moved like that. But then again, Teyla looked serious about this whole thing. Rodney frowned, resorting to his time-tested strategy of pretending to concentrate on his ZedPM diagnostic and changing the subject.
"So . . . Teyla, what about you? Coming here and watching all of these rugrats run around hasn't made your ovaries explode or anything, has it?"
"I am unaware of these ovaries of which you speak, but I can guarantee you that I have seen no explosions here."
Rodney sighed. "What I meant was that you haven't felt the ticking of your biological clock?" Teyla looked at him blankly. "You know. You're a woman, getting . . . um . . ." He didn't want to insult someone who could probably kill him with her pinky toe. "You're getting just a little slightly . . . oldish? You don't feel the burning desire to become a mother?"
Teyla just smiled a small regretful smile. "As a girl I had always planned on a family. But then I became leader of my people - with it I gained the responsibility of looking to the well-being of my people first and all else second. Children cannot be placed second. It is unfair of those of us pledged to higher causes to have to sacrifice our children for that which we believe in."
"So nobody involved in the war against the Wraith should have children?"
Teyla pursed her lips in that exasperated ‘I have known retarded five year olds more mature than you' sort of way. "No, Rodney. I am saying that as a leader, my first duty is to the community and now to Atlantis. I would not deprive a child of his mother because my duty is more important."
"Oh." Teyla was strangely enlightened about these sorts of things. Rodney shrugged, looking down at his diagnostic. It was a sad, sad day when they trekked all the way to the Lord of the Flies planet just so Rodney could click a button and lower the ZedPM back into its casing.
"Let's go find Sheppard and get away from these marauding little . . ." Rodney turned around to see that the blonde girl and her friend had followed them. He jumped and let out a little shriek accordingly.
The kids giggled and Teyla looked as though she was trying very hard not to do the same. He shot her a glare and retrieved more chocolate from his bag. "There, but I'll only give it to you if you promise never to sneak up on me like that again."
The kids nodded, looking far too serious to be telling the truth, but grabbed their chocolate and scampered away.
"Kids these days," Rodney complained. "Did no one ever teach them to say thank you to the nice old man who gives them chocolate even when they disrupt his very important work?"
"They did not grow up with proper parents, Rodney," Teyla said, a great sadness in her voice.
Whatever. It wasn't like Rodney's parents got an A-plus in raising geniuses, but he turned out fine. He snorted, picked up his gear and stormed out, Teyla close behind. They heard shrieks of laughter coming from back near the Gate. Of course Ronon's familiar brand of caveman humor would appeal to the little tykes.
It wasn't long before the village came into view, John Sheppard right in the thick of things as usual. Rodney had wanted to speak with him about their conversation the night before, but how could he? The man was surrounded by a village full of children and the last thing they needed was to hear Rodney's potty mouth explode in their general vicinity – they were probably screwed up enough as it was.
John was standing right next to Keras, smirking and whispering something in his ear as they watched the children play in front of them. Keras had his hand high on John's arm, clasped in a far too intimate way. It made Rodney's blood boil. Sure, they were just fucking, but . . . but John shouldn't be able to touch other men. Maybe Rodney could accept the occasional wannabe Mrs. Kirk, if only to give a nod to the whole biological need to reproduce, but with this boy?
"Colonel?" Rodney shouted, stepping between two children who were running after another who was holding a deep red ball.
"Hey, Rodney!" John turned, giving him one of those far-too-bullshitty smiles.
Rodney glared. "And what exactly do you think you're doing, Sheppard?"
John shrugged.
"John is teaching us how to play Quidditch!" A little blur of brown hair said as it streaked past, practically running Rodney over.
"What?"
"A game we used to play at football practice."
"Of course you did," Rodney sneered.
"Look, Rodney, is this about this morning? Because I really don't want to talk about it."
Of course he didn't. John Sheppard was like the black hole of emotions. Say the word ‘feeling' and before you knew it he had you talking about John Travolta and ‘Saturday Night Fever' and half convinced that you didn't even know what these ‘feelings' things were anyhow – maybe they were like furbies or Valentine's Day, in existence purely so women could make your life miserable.
"No . . . no, of course not . . . I was just wondering . . ." Thankfully something hard and strangely ball-like decided to pick that exact moment to bean Rodney in the side of the head, because he had no idea how he was going to finish that sentence. "Ow! What the hell was that?"
John and Keras leaned closer together, snickering.
"I believe that was a bludger, Dr. McKay," Keras managed.
Damn these aliens. Did they go to school to learn how to be just sarcastic enough that you couldn't tell if they were joking or just stupid? Maybe General O'Neill had sent a missive or something.
"A bludger, very nice," Rodney spat, rubbing his head. He probably had a blood clot in his brain, ready to go comatose any moment now. Why did all American sports involve hematomas? "A very healthy thing to teach young children, Sheppard. You'll make a stellar parent someday, I'm sure."
John looked a little distant at that, eyes going dark and closed off almost in the way that Rodney knew to look out for – it normally meant he was going to have to duck if he wanted to avoid getting blood on his clothes. But there was something else there, a sadness that would've broken Rodney if he weren't so busy being angry instead.
"Oh, is that what this is all about?" He couldn't believe it. Teyla and her stupid perceptive woman-ness. "You're upset because you're pushing forty and aren't going to get a chance to settle down with your perfect little family and your 2.37 children and June Cleaver's pumpkin pie?"
John gritted his teeth, moving away from Keras' side (hah, take that, you little piece of jailbait!). "Rodney," he growled, latching onto Rodney's arm and dragging him away from the playing field, "how about we discuss this somewhere a little more private?"
Rodney nodded, barely waiting until they were out of earshot before shouting, "I can't believe you! What do you expect, eh? Even if you weren't unfortunately kinked toward playing for the wrong team, you'd still be living on a highly dangerous classified base in another galaxy, fighting space-vampires and robots every day and trying to strap yourself to a suicide bomb every other week! How would you even date in all of this, let alone find the time to meet Mrs. Right, settle down and breed your own battalion of messy-haired laconic little pain-in-the-ass troublemakers?"
"Rodney . . ." John was looking despondent again, but Rodney didn't care. He hated people who couldn't look at reality in the face and just deal with it. John might be a reckless optimist, but he wasn't a dreamer. He knew the score when he agreed to this mission, and he should . . . well, he should be happy. He got to fly the coolest spaceships this side of Industrial Light and Magic, explore a whole new galaxy of adventures and alien wine, figure out the secrets of the universe and well . . . he got Rodney. Wasn't that enough?
"Look," Rodney said, poking John hard in the chest. "The fact of the matter is that it's not going to happen. You just have to make do with what you have. I know I'm not a busty blonde with a whip and a good copy of ‘The Joy of Cooking' and that we're both busy men, but the sex is good . . . no, the sex is great. And we're good together, Sheppard. We're not particularly . . ." he gulped, "emotional people, but if you need more than just a quick fuck and a game of chess . . . well, I think we can work something out. I mean, I am a genius and you're not exactly stupid, so . . ."
John appeared to be panting now, eyes narrowing in that way they always did when he was about to go off on some colossal rant. "As much as I appreciate the compliment . . . I just . . . Rodney . . . you don't . . . I don't want kids, okay? And, no, I'm not cheating on you with a twenty-six year-old, so stop glaring every time Keras smiles at me. I'm happy with the way thing are. I can't . . . I don't want more. But if you do, you should . . . if you wanted to see other people, we could still be friends."
Rodney sighed. God, why did he have to end up with one of the dimmer light bulbs in the box? He stepped forward, pretending not to notice when John flinched back just a little bit. "You idiot," he whispered. "I don't want other people."
John looked away when Rodney leaned forward to kiss him. "I'm sorry, Rodney. I can't."
And with that, John turned and sauntered off.
Rodney didn't know how long he stood there gaping after him, only that he jumped and made a very manly squeak when Keras suddenly appeared behind him (that sneaky little bastard), carrying a small blonde boy in his arms, a little girl clinging to one of his legs. "Dr. McKay, I do not believe you have met my young."
"Chocolate?" the little girl asked.
Rodney was going to kill someone. Really, he was.
"Well, you certainly seem qualified," Richard Woolsey said, looking down at the large stack of papers sitting in front of him. "And the IOA has been looking for more representatives of the UK. Although the final approval falls to Dr. Weir, of course."
"Dr. Weir?" the figure across the table asked, hand finding its way into a convenient pocket and gripping the small sliver of ebony wood held carefully there.
"Yes, of course. She's the leader of the expedition. We can send her your file in the next databurst and have you onboard the Daedalus two months from now."
"Two months?"
"Yes, of course. Supply runs normally go about every month and a half. Two weeks to get to another galaxy is a lot better than it could be, believe you me."
Woolsey eyed the figure sitting across his desk – thinning grey hair and a thin, almost underfed looking frame, the same tired war-weary look that most of the SGC scientists seemed to sporting recently. Why was he wearing a suit? And a tweed one at that? Woolsey refrained from rolling his eyes. He'd forgotten the strange little nuances of British Academia. At least the man wasn't asking him if he could smoke a pipe.
"There is no way to arrive sooner?"
"Not without opening the Gate, there's not, and we certainly can't afford that type of expenditure," Woolsey scoffed. It was hard to believe that this man had worked at the SGC for . . . he looked down at the paper . . . an adequately large number of months without understanding the ridiculousness of that statement.
"Well then, I shall patiently wait," the man said with a pleasant but altogether forgettable smile.
"Actually, you'll head right back to Dr. Jackson's lab. Competent linguists don't just grow on trees."
"Of course. Thank you. It's been a pleasure."
"Indeed," Woolsey said, already moving on to the budget review. "Welcome to the Atlantis Expedition, Dr. Lupin."
"Colonel!" Rodney shouted, frantic. There was darkness all around, so thick and cloying that he could feel it – like icy fingers tracing along his cheeks, slithering over his chest and down his spine in a cold caress.
"Hurry up, Rodney!" John yelled from in front of him. He was just a speck of light in the oppressive calm of the cave, the bulb on the tip of his P-90 swinging as he scrambled and scraped his way down the rockfall.
"I am hurrying!" Rodney had no idea who the hell would put their Stargate at the bottom of a cave, but he assumed that it would be the same kind of person that would give the natives really big arrows and the idea that people wearing black were sent by the devil.
Ronon and Teyla must've already been at the Gate, as they'd radioed that they were entering the cave about five minutes ago. How they managed to always break off the side that ended with them back at the Gate first, Rodney had no idea. It was probably karma for all of the ants he'd stepped on or something. The Pegasus Galaxy didn't even have ants (it was Rodney's private belief that the Iratus bugs had eaten them all).
And then John's light stopped in front of him. What the hell? "Sheppard?" Rodney asked, before his foot slipped, a shot of pain running up his leg from the ankle.
Rodney went down flailing, slipping in the grey mud of the cave and sliding towards the gaping darkness that certainly explained why John had decided to stop. It was just his luck to slip right at the edge of the huge precipice.
It all happened too fast for Rodney to exactly process, but he wasn't dead yet, and there was a strange pulling sensation coming from the back of his tac vest. After a few seconds to get his physical state untangled (and to see his flashlight fade away into the inky black, going out with a crack moments later), Rodney realized that John must have managed to grab a hold of his vest as he fell. "John?" he asked, not even bothering to hide the manly shaking of his voice.
"I've got you, Rodney."
Rodney took a deep breath. John had him. "Do you think you can pull me up?"
There was some scuffling noise, the sound of a few more rocks going over the edge, but Rodney didn't budge.
John's voice sounded strained. "I can't pull you up one-handed, Rodney, and I need the other hand to hold on. Can you reach your radio?"
Rodney nodded, realizing only after he'd clicked it that there was no way that John could see the gesture in the darkness. "Ronon? Teyla?"
He received only static in reply. "Well, duh, cave."
"So what do we do now?"
It was a good question. "Maybe, if I can twist around I can find a foothold or something. . ."
"Okay," John panted. "Sounds like a plan."
Rodney scrabbled at the rock, trying to get so that he was facing the cliff. The only sounds were John's harsh panting breaths and the sound of Rodney's feet searching vainly for purchase.
"Rodney?" John asked.
"Nothing. Here. I think I might be able to grab onto the ledge if I just . . ." but it was no use, the whole thing was a damp mudslide, slippery as butter. It was a miracle that Sheppard had managed to hold on at all.
Rodney looked up to see the light of the flashlight smashed between them. Sheppard's face was red, his knuckles white, even in the sepia wash of the light reflecting off the gray walls of the cavern. And suddenly it occurred to him – this was it. Ronon and Teyla were out of sight and not going to turn back anytime soon, the natives would be making their dramatic arrow-wielding entrance any second now, and there was no way Sheppard could hang on much longer.
"John," he said, taking a deep stuttering breath.
"I know . . ." John gasped. "You died saving children. But you're not going to die, Got it, McKay?"
"No, John, that's not what I was going to say. I wanted to say . . . I . . ." oh what the hell? He was going to die anyhow, who cared how embarrassing this might be? "I think I'm in love with you."
The light stuttered between them, probably from the deep breaths John was taking as it pressed against his cheek. Rodney could feel the silence, the darkness that would surround him any second now. At least he wouldn't die alone.
Then there was a shout, somewhere back in the cave.
Above him John bit his lip, still handsome even stressed and covered in mud. Not a bad last sight, all in all.
"You're not going to die, Rodney," John said, with a depth of conviction Rodney had never heard before, words weaving themselves into the darkness around them, almost like a spell.
And then they were slipping, the familiar feeling of free fall rising in Rodney's belly. It would be only seconds before quick horrible death against the rocks below, but time seemed to slow. John was falling with him, pulling Rodney close and wrapping his body around him, an embrace somehow more intimate then any of their varied trysts. Rodney supposed that it was because dying must need to be intimate.
"Me too," he thought he heard John whisper, before they suddenly and completely miraculously didn't die.
But then again, Rodney might have hallucinated it, because he also could have sworn that they bounced.
Lindsay Novak hiccupped. So perhaps she had done wrong deciding to disassemble Colonel Caldwell's chair just before they were to set off , but she had only been thinking about his bad back. She'd heard General Landry telling Dr. Jackson that was why the man seemed so grumpy all the time.
How was she to know that Hermiod would get into a fight with Dr. Lee, leaving the last of the hyperdrive diagnostics up to her? For a supposedly hyper-evolved alien, he sure could be petty.
So of course Caldwell's chair hadn't been assembled on time, and he had been even grumpier than usual, which was about as friendly as a lion with a bad case of the runs, in Lindsay's opinion. Her hiccups were still recovering.
Fortunately, her punishment seemed confined to inventory duty, something that Lindsay actually enjoyed. It was a nice mindless pursuit that allowed her to daydream as much as she pleased. Perhaps they would meet up with Major Lorne at the midway station, and he'd show up shirtless and with a bouquet of flowers just to sweep her off her feet and tell Colonel Caldwell to stop being such a grumpy-gus.
Lindsay sighed. Like that was going to happen.
She looked down at the manifest. A newcomer, one Dr. Remus Lupin, had brought only a single trunk of scientific equipment.
"Good for him," Lindsay said to herself. She was tired of hearing various rants about needing gene sequencers and chemical compressors and . . . whale tanks, as though there was room on this ship for all that plus everyone's egos.
Now where was this trunk of his? Lindsay looked around. Maybe she could persuade Major Lorne to help her unload some of this stuff . . . shirtless.
"Ooops!" Lindsay squeaked, tripping over something down by her ankles and falling face first against the 100th box labeled ‘Delicate Scientific Equipment – Do Not Touch.' It was probably just another box of Twinkies for Dr. McKay.
Disgruntled, Lindsay rubbed her shin and pushed herself to her feet. "Hmm . . ." she supposed Dr. Lupin wasn't joking when he said ‘trunk.' It was black and battered looking – the old brass hinges scuffed and dull. Lindsay didn't think she'd ever seen one of these outside of Antiques Roadshow. But then again, the manifest said that Lupin was from the UK and they did things differently over there.
She dusted herself off, examining the trunk a bit more carefully, noticing that it had somehow come unlatched.
Now, Lindsay didn't consider herself a particularly nosy person, but she was just as curious as the next girl – you didn't volunteer for missions across the galaxy without some sense of scientific inquisitiveness, did you?
She hiccupped again, pulling the lid of the trunk open, to reveal . . . nothing. This couldn't be right – not even a linguist would bring only an empty trunk to another galaxy. Lindsay stuck her head in there, finding a ladder and . . . was that a whole room down there? Huh.
Now, this is when most muggles probably would have adopted a panicked state much like a chicken missing its head, but Lindsay was a veteran of intergalactic space travel. Hermiod had shown her something like this once – a small box that appeared to contain an entire city of small fuzzy creatures vaguely resembling lint balls. He'd said it was a children's toy, but she was never sure if he did these things just to try to get to her or not.
She dropped down into the room, stumbling and knocking over two brooms leaning against the wall. Lindsay, child of the sponge mop and Swiffer generations, had never seen one of those outside of Halloween. Those Brits sure were old-fashioned.
And look at that – an honest-to-god cast iron cauldron, bubbling too. Whatever it was smelled pretty putrid, however. "Yuck."
Lindsay looked down at all of the green smoke spiraling out in a surprisingly interesting circular pattern, seeing . . .
Lindsay sneezed. "Hey, puppy, I didn't mean to disturb you."
There, behind the counter, was a large grey dog, probably a husky or one of those kinds of very wolf-looking ones. Lindsay sneezed again.
The dog's piercing grey eyes opened, seeming to glare at her accusingly.
"Sorry, doggie," Lindsay stammered, hiccupping and sneezing at the same time.
The dog's ears perked up, as though it had never seen anybody do that before.
"Allergies," she explained, though not sure what she felt compelled to justify herself to a dog. She reached out, gave it a pat and said, "Good boy. I'm just going to . . ." hiccup, "Excuse me. I'm going to leave and pretend I didn't just catch your master with an unauthorized pet and an uncataloged alien device. This trunk isn't even the worst somebody's done to smuggle a pet. Did you know that Dr. McKay tried to bring his cat by putting him in a box and calling it his Schrödinger's test chamber?" she laughed, awkwardly.
The dog just looked confused.
"Well, your secret's safe with me," Lindsay said, making for the ladder. She wasn't going to be the messenger that brought Caldwell more bad news – not on the day that he had to stand and wait for the new upholstery to dry.
Meanwhile, on a small blue planet in another galaxy, Rodney McKay was pacing.
"Stop it, McKay," Ronon growled from where he sat on one of the empty infirmary beds. Ronon's face was covered in small scratches from branches and shrubs and the fleet of small cave bats he'd apparently fought off to get to Rodney and Sheppard after they'd fallen pretty much the whole way down to the Gate.
"Stop it? Stop it?! How am I supposed to stop it? You felt his skin. He was burning up! Did you know that with a temperature over 103 degrees your brain fries in your skull and you turn into a vegetable?" Sheppard had somehow managed to survive the drop off a precipice without even a bruise, only to get an arrow through his shoulder on his way to the Gate.
"I do not imagine that Colonel Sheppard will transform into a vegetable, Rodney," Teyla said serenely from where she was perched at the foot of Ronon's bed. She had survived the whole ordeal with only a large bruise developing over her left eye, and that was actually Rodney's fault for accidentally elbowing her in a fit of nervous flailing.
"It was only a flesh wound," Ronon remarked.
"Remind me to kill whoever showed you Monty Python."
"You and Sheppard did."
"Oh . . . well, then . . . an arrow sticking straight through his shoulder is hardly a flesh wound! Maybe it's like a toothpick to Conan the Barbarian, but to the rest of highly evolved humans, it's a . . . a . . . an arrow. And a cesspool of infection causing the brain melting fever that Sheppard is experiencing right now, so if you would just . . ." Rodney was huffing and puffing, getting more panicked by the moment.
"We are all worried about John," Teyla interrupted tiredly. "But, Rodney, you must remember to breathe."
Rodney caught himself mid hyperventilation. "Oh, right . . . yes . . . that . . . whew. Thanks, Teyla."
"He will be fine, Rodney. John is a strong man. He has survived worse."
"I'm just afraid that this will be the straw that . . ." Rodney trailed off as the doors heading to the isolation rooms opened and Dr. Carson Beckett stepped out.
Rodney rushed over to him before the man even had a chance to toss out his latex gloves.
"How is he, Carson?"
Carson looked Rodney over. "I'm going to need another foot of personal space here, Rodney," he said.
"Oh, yes, of course . . . right." Rodney babbled, stepping back. Over his shoulder, Ronon snorted.
Carson smiled. "He's going to be fine."
The tension melted out of Rodney like the air from a punctured balloon. "Oh, thank god."
"We were able to thoroughly clean and stitch up the wound. He will not have even the smallest scar," Carson announced proudly. "His fever is responding well to the antipyretic medication and we've put him on a broad spectrum anti-biotic. I don't anticipate complications."
Rodney stepped forward to encircle Carson in an awkward embrace. "Thank you," he said, puncturing it with an even more awkward pat to Carson's shoulder.
"Okay . . . you're welcome, Rodney," Carson replied, looking a bit shell-shocked, but giving Rodney's arm a reciprocal pat anyhow.
"So, when can I . . . we . . . when can we see him?"
Carson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Rodney. We've got him in isolation at the moment. Have to concern ourselves with pathogens now, don't we?"
Rodney gave his best pained sigh, not even faking it. He really needed to see John.
He bounced on his one good ankle (the other was sprained, not broken, and taped with an icepack and a brace). "Can I at least see him? Pleeease."
After what John had said, or at least what Rodney thought he'd said, they really needed to talk. And that was before Rodney got John to explain how they'd survived what must have been at least a thirty-meter drop.
"Now, Rodney, the man's not himself at the moment. It would be best . . . "
"Pleeeaaaaase."
Teyla winced at the high pitched noise. Carson did as well. Ronon just grumbled and said, "Were you this needy before you and Sheppard started fucking?"
"Ronon!" Teyla hissed, kicking the Satedan in the shin.
"Um . . . er . . . what?" Carson spluttered, looking shocked and somewhat . . . did he seem accusatory? Rodney frowned. Maybe Carson just wanted to keep John to himself. In fact, now that he thought about it, they had always seemed unnaturally chummy. Well, not so much chummy as . . . secretive and on occasion almost hostile towards one another.
"Yes, yes, fine, the colonel and I are all very involved in fucking like bunnies. Close your mouth, Carson, and just let me see him."
Carson sighed.
"And I'm going to consider this Doctor-patient confidentiality, so if this gets out you can forget about sacrificing your chickens and playing Frankenstein, okay?"
Carson nodded, looking torn between desperate romanticism and utter annoyance. "Aye. I've half a mind to do another round of blood tests just for that, but I suppose . . . it couldn't hurt to look in on him for just a minute."
"Good," Rodney pronounced, grabbing the crutches he'd been provided with and starting off towards the isolation wing, Carson trailing behind him.
They had put John in one of the rooms with the large floor-to-ceiling windows along a single wall. It had been a room like this they'd used for Michael at one point. Rodney tried not to gulp. He didn't think it was the same one.
John seemed to be sleeping peacefully, even though his skin was flushed and there was a stark white bandage wrapped around his shoulder and arm, holding it immobile. Rodney supposed that was what you got from cave-bacteria. He winced at the thought.
"Well, there you are . . ." Carson began, before Rodney heard the soft buzz of talking coming from his headset. Carson tapped it once, then said, "I'll be right there." He left before Rodney could even ask him what was the matter.
On any other day he might have followed to see if he could help with the problem, even though Carson would've asked him along if it had involved him. But today he was content to look through the window and watch John sleep, just to see that he was still alive and breathing – they were both still were.
Rodney didn't know how long he'd stood there, watching the steady in-and-out of John's breath before the man started to move restlessly, the sheets slipping from his bed. Before Rodney knew it, John was pulling at his nasal cannula looking panicked and desperate.
Rodney turned to bark at the nurse to do something, only to find that she'd followed Carson to whatever medical disaster he'd run off to. Rodney sighed, resigning himself to possibly catching John's deadly cave bacteria before pulling his scrub top over his mouth, opening the door and stepping in.
"No . . ." John gasped, pushing at the blankets and wincing. "No . . . . Voldemort . . ."
Voldemort? What the hell was that? It sounded like some sort of sexually transmitted disease John might have picked up from one of his alien floozies. Rodney spared his own little scientist a glance before stepping up to John's beside and grabbing his flailing arm. At least the IV was still in.
"Hey . . . it's okay. The voldewart isn't going to get you! I promise. Shhh . . . John, it's okay. I'm here."
"No . . . I won't let you . . . I'll never become a Death Eater."
Yuck. Rodney wrinkled his nose. What the hell was a Death Eater? Was that kinda like Hell's Angels? "It's okay, Sheppard. Trust me, no one's asking."
Rodney used the hand that Sheppard didn't have in a death grip to stroke through sweat-soaked hair. "I'm here. I've . . . um . . . I've got your six."
"Protego."
"What, so now you speak Latin?" Rodney snorted. "C'mon, John, you're really starting to scare me here."
"Rodney?" John asked, fevered hazel eyes opening just a sliver.
"Oh, thank god."
"Tired," John mumbled, squeezing Rodney's hand briefly, before shifting back into uncomfortable sleep.
Rodney just sighed and covered him up with a blanket, not letting go of his hand.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, but suddenly Carson was standing behind him, still outfitted in what appeared to be surgical gear. "I thought I told you to wait outside, Rodney," there was a hard edge to his voice that seemed very different from the hardcore romantic that had let Rodney look in on the guy he maybe-sort-of had a relationship with.
"Sorry . . . he was agitated, I had to . . ."
"Did he say anything?"
Rodney didn't know why he felt compelled to lie; perhaps it was the transparent look of fear on Carson's face when he asked, but instead of asking Carson if he knew anything about ‘voldewart', he said, "No, he calmed down after I came in."
Carson still looked suspicious, but he nodded. "Okay, then. It looks like you're dripping. I'll get Nurse Higgens to get you a new icepack in a moment."
Rodney agreed, following him, but taking one last look at John over his shoulder. Something wasn't right, and whatever it was, Carson knew about it.
"Hey, Carson," Rodney asked, "has anybody been know to survive a thirty meter drop?"
Carson stopped for a second. "On the rare occasion, with a giving surface beneath, easily with something like tree branches at intervals to slow the momentum . . ."
"Without any of that?"
Carson shook his head. "Well, I suppose one might be able to hit in such a way that might leave them severely injured, but alive, though it's highly unlikely. You understand the kinds of forces that would be involved better than I do, Rodney. Why?"
Rodney shrugged. "Bet I had with Cadman – the kind of things Marines think up, eh?"
He laughed nervously, hoping that discussion of Carson's ex would halt future questioning.
Carson eyed him suspiciously, before handing him off to a nurse and returning to the surgical theater. Rodney was too preoccupied calculating the forces that should have smashed them into a bony pulp to wonder why Carson'd come to shoo Rodney out of Sheppard's room if he was in the middle of surgery.
Well, the muggles certainly found interesting ways to get around their magical limitations, Remus Lupin thought as a flash of light engulfed him and he and several other scientists appeared in a large room at the base of a big ring. It was quite a bit more comfortable than apparating - that was for sure. He'd have to remember to ask the humorless naked elf how they managed it.
And this large metal flying car they used . . . it crossed whole galaxies! Remus wasn't sure that even the collective wisdom of the Wizengamot could solve that one. It was too bad he hadn't thought to bring a camera with him.
But no matter. Remus shoved his hands in the pockets of these interesting khaki slacks everyone was made to wear (he was thinking of having a robe made from the material of the shirt) and scanned the crowd looking down at the new arrivals from the causeway suspended above them.
The man he sought was supposedly a military person, which meant he'd be carrying one of the loud black wands and wearing those silly chameleon-pants (how were they supposed to hide you if the patterns couldn't rearrange themselves?).
Remus was beginning to fear that the subject of his search wasn't here when he recognized an unmistakable mass of messy dark black hair. He smiled. Nobody had ever been able to tame that mane. He remembered Sirius trying to use a cleaning spell on it, and ending up with a mouthful of soap bubbles instead.
Remus stepped forward, watching as the man he'd come looking for descended the steps, following a pretty woman with a red shirt and a politician's smile. He had one of his arms bandaged in some crude muggle immobilization device, and he looked a bit bruised, older, with some wrinkles creeping in at the sides of his eyes.
Remus wondered how he himself must look, appearing like this. Older, surely, tired. He'd aged so much in the just the past few years alone. Would he even be recognized?
All doubt was removed when the man stopped halfway down the stairs "Moony?" he asked, incredulous.
Time seemed to stand still. Remus took in a deep breath, joy flooding him. It was true . . . it was really true . . . he was alive. Remus didn't care if he'd have to obliviate everyone in the room later, he rushed forward, pulling the man into a deep hug.
"Is it really you?" the man asked, burying his face in the crook of Remus' neck.
"Yes, it's me. I can't believe you're here. An American? Serving in the muggle military?"
They both laughed. When they were children, laying casually in the meadow by the lake, watching the giant squid sun itself on the far bank and talking about their dreams, they'd never imagined anything like this – that the universe could be any bigger than their silly teenaged dilemmas, that it would extend beyond Hogwarts and later beyond Voldemort and wizards and Earth, even.
"The war's over," Remus said, pulling his friend in close, "You can come home now, James."