Title: Networked
Author:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
the_cephalopod
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Word Count: ~52,000
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, they are not mine...
Acknowledgements: As always, many thanks go to my wonderful betas:sgamadison for her support all the way along with this story and, not least, for ensuring John didn't head off into psycho territory. Also to zinfic for her sterling work pointing out my wonky tenses. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Author's Notes: Written for the utterly lovelybluespirit_star for the handmade meme that was going around *ages* ago. She wanted pining!John and oblivious!Rodney and I have done my best to oblige! ♥
Summary: John wasn't the most open of people at the best of times and sharing his mind with Rodney McKay was certainly the one thing he didn't need...
Networked
for Bluespirit
Part One
"Get down, McKay!" John shouted urgently. With his P-90 clutched tightly in his hands, he started sprinting as fast as he could towards where Rodney stood, as per usual, right slap-bang in the middle of a mission gone sour. As he ran, John could hear the pulse of Ronon's energy pistol and then the staccato of Teyla's P-90 behind him as they attempted to hold back the attacking soldiers. However, despite their best efforts, some of the enemy bullets were getting through. Some part of John's mind was aware that what he was doing was foolish – running out into the open in the middle of a fire-fight - but the larger part of him couldn't care less. All he knew was that he needed to get Rodney out of the line of fire before he managed to get himself shot. Or worse.
Rodney jerked and spun around as he heard John's shout over the sound of gunfire that echoed all around them. As he did so, a few rounds impacted on the stone pillars behind him, sending shards of rock flying. Rodney let out a cry of pain as one hit him in the face and John saw a trickle of red well up on Rodney's forehead. Too late, he was going to be too late. Gritting his teeth, John forced himself to run faster, willing his body to obey his mind even as his legs burned with the lactic acid build-up and his breath tore painfully at his lungs. Although always on high-alert during first contact situations and well-used to Pegasus's tricks, the speed with which this particular meeting had gone all to hell had surprised even John. Neither Teyla's diplomacy nor Ronon's intimidation tactics had been able to avert the current fire-fight and the best John could hope for now was to get his team out of there in one piece.
Another flurry of bullets flew past his head and Rodney dropped suddenly to the ground. John's heart lurched painfully in his chest and seemed to stop beating. With a final burst of speed, he managed to reach Rodney just in time to catch him as he fell, wrapping an arm tightly about Rodney's waist and hauling Rodney's body up against his own. He resisted the urge to let loose on their attackers with his weapon in favour of getting Rodney to safety; he knew he could trust Teyla and Ronon to keep them covered as best they could. Glancing around hurriedly, he pulled Rodney backwards and managed to get them both down into the questionable cover of a large bush, hoping that the foliage would hide them sufficiently from view. He needed time to find out just how badly Rodney had been hurt and how best to get him out of the mess into which their mission had rapidly descended.
The blood running freely down Rodney's face captured John's attention and, for a brief moment, it was all John could do to hold it together. All of his instincts were screaming at him to seek vengeance – to start fighting back hard and not stop until all the bastards who’d dared to attack his team and his scientist were dead. Thankfully, his military training kicked in and he managed to get a handle on his rage. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on Rodney, channelling his anger into action.
“I'm having words with Lorne when we get back,” John muttered as he did his best to pull Rodney with him further into the undergrowth. “The next ambush was definitely supposed to have been on one of his missions.”
“You make sure you do that,” came a muzzy voice from below. "Then it would be Parrish being bodily pulled through alien vegetation of questionable origin and at least he'd be able to appreciate the experience."
John looked down and found himself staring into Rodney's bleary blue eyes, relieved beyond measure to hear the familiar sound of Rodney's complaints despite the blood that welling up copiously from the gash in his forehead. His heart stuttered back up into an uneasy rhythm and John couldn't stop a grin spreading across his features even as he berated himself internally for his weakness. “Hey, Rodney” he said, grateful that his voice remained steady in the face of his overwhelming relief. “You doing alright?”
“No, of course I'm not doing all right,” Rodney huffed, batting a leaf aside with a hand and regarding John askance. He did, however, shift in John's hold, pulling back and then shuffling around so that he was crouched beside John rather than leaning up against him. To John's further relief, the complaints didn't stop. “I'm currently bleeding from my head, trapped in the middle of what is most likely a carnivorous alien cabbage plant and being used for target practice by a bunch of blood-thirsty heathens with an unhealthy appreciation for guns and, thankfully, atrocious aim. None of this can possibly be considered as 'doing all right'.”
As if to prove his point, another burst of gunfire whipped over their heads causing the large fleshy leaves of their cover to sway slightly and underlying John's need to get Rodney to a more secure location and then see to the rest of his team. "Can you walk?" he asked Rodney. "We need to get out of here."
"Yes, I can walk," Rodney replied at once. His tone was dismissive, but his eyes were wide and just a little scared. The dark red blood still spilling down Rodney's face from the inch long gash on his forehead was running dangerously close to his to his eyes. It stood out in stark contrast to Rodney's pale skin and John noticed that his hands were shaking slightly as he fumbled with his vest. “I would, however, like to stop myself from bleeding out first.”
“Here, let me,” John said, reaching out to still Rodney's hands with his own, plucking the white handkerchief from Rodney's grasp as he did so. He dabbed at Rodney's cut carefully, wiping the blood out of Rodney's eye and off his forehead with the folded cloth, steadying Rodney's face by cupping Rodney's cheek with his left hand.
John tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but it was hard. The sounds of the battle still raging around them were distracting and the adrenaline was still pumping furiously through John's system. He blocked out the noise forcibly, focusing all his attention on Rodney instead. He gently held Rodney's face in his hands, tilting Rodney's head to one side so that he could attend to the cut. He felt a small thrum of warmth start to glow in his chest as he looked at Rodney, but quashed that feeling too; it was equally, if not more, distracting. He moved quickly, dabbing at the blood with a sterile wipe, wincing in sympathy as Rodney gasped in pain.
"Hey," John said, “I'm almost done.” Having cleared up most of the blood, he put a couple of butterfly plasters over the cut to help hold it together. “There – good as new,” he said as he pulled back. “Did you get hit any place else?”
“No,” Rodney replied, “just winded when I ducked down.” Rodney still looked rather pale and John found that he automatically wanted to comfort Rodney. He started to reach out to touch Rodney, but was able to resist at the last moment, his hand clenching into a fist before it could make contact. After all, this was about Rodney, not John.
"Look, we're gonna be fine,” he said. “Ronon and Teyla are out there holding their own and we're just gonna head through here and then circle out and around the monument so we can double back on their position. It'll be a cakewalk, you'll see." He put as much confidence into his tone as he could in an attempt to buoy Rodney's spirits.
Rodney snorted his efforts; he obviously remained at least partially unconvinced. Nevertheless, he did rally, sighing and then nodding his acceptance. "Okay," he replied, his hands moving down to his thigh-holster and pulling out his Berretta. “Let's do this, then.” He checked his weapon's bullet chamber and then snapped the mechanism closed, his hands steady once more and his movements sure and strong. "But if we get killed, it's totally your fault."
John grinned and clapped Rodney on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger there for just a moment, soaking up the heat he could feel radiating through Rodney's clothes. After a couple beats, he made himself pull back and fixed his familiar smirk in place. “Fine,” he said, “but there'll be no death today - this is just Pegasus reminding us who's really in charge. We just gotta stay cool, do our thing and we'll be home again in no time.”
~*~
In reality, 'no time' turned out to be approximately an hour later – the vast majority of which John and Rodney spent scrambling their way through the equivalent of the giant Pegasus cabbage patch, in an effort to avoid the numerous bands of soldiers patrolling the area, before they were able to find their way safely back to Teyla and Ronon. Of course, by that time Teyla and Ronon had successfully fought off the soldiers tailing them and were waiting by the jumper. John did his best to ignore both the concerned look Teyla sent him and the rather more pissed off look on Ronon’s face. It didn’t matter what they thought – not about this. He was team leader and he’d made a call, Rodney was safe, so it had been the right one. He likewise ignored the little voice in his head, the one that sounded remarkably like Elizabeth, that was saying that maybe he wouldn’t be so lucky the next time and asked him if he’d have chosen to act differently had it not been Rodney who'd been under attack.
Typically, Rodney had spent practically the whole time they’d been rooting through the undergrowth complaining about John's abysmal sense of direction, but as Rodney himself had not had any better suggestions as to the correct way to turn, John had tried not to let it get to him. After all, their getting lost this time had less to do with his sense of direction (or lack thereof) and more to do with the planet's unstable magnetic field and the fact that John was trying to save Rodney's life by not leading him back out into the middle of a group of trigger-happy soldiers. When John had tried to express these things to Rodney – calmly and with much patience, of course – Rodney had merely rolled his eyes, mumbled something derogatory about military intelligence, and whacked John with a cabbage leaf. John had tried not to let that get to him either.
Now they were once again on Atlantis, thoroughly de-briefed and comprehensively de-cabbaged, and John was attempting to get himself back on an even keel after the stresses of the mission. He glanced over at Rodney, grinning gleefully in the chair across the table from him, and released a breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding.
“And that's checkmate,” Rodney announced with a flourish, his voice pulling John back to the present.
“Hey, no way,” John complained with a frown, contesting Rodney's victory more out of habit now than any real belief that Rodney was wrong about the checkmate. At the moment John was happy to lose countless games of chess to Rodney, just so long as he could see Rodney sitting opposite him - alive and whole.
“Oh, knock it off, Sheppard,” came Rodney's reply as he crossed his arms over his chest and pinned John with a glare. “You're mated and you know it. Now give in gracefully.”
That made John snort. “Oh, like you do?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and letting the familiar pattern of their banter slowly ease away the tension that had built inside him during the day's mission.
Rodney frowned at John's crack. “I'll have you know that was a very special case,” he huffed. “I'd just come off from pulling a double shift and I was also no doubt fighting off that Illuvian flu bug thing that Lorne's team brought back from P3T-974.”
“Of course you were, buddy,” John said, nodding in mock agreement.
“Oh, you're just bitter,” Rodney countered, dismissing John's sarcasm with a wave of his hand. “What does that make it now? Fifteen games to four so far this year?”
“Oh, no you don't,” John countered with a grin. “It's only fourteen to four as you very well know.”
“Whatever,” Rodney agreed, surveying the chessboard and looking pointedly at John's king.
"You know, I've got a pretty good excuse this time round," he said. "I did save your life today.” His eye’s flicked briefly to the treated cut on Rodney’s forehead and he had to work hard to contain the little burst of anger seeing the injury elicited.
“Got me lost, don't you mean?” Rodney countered, but he was smiling.
John merely raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, and saved my life,” Rodney continued at John's look. “Thank you,” his tone was serious.
John felt himself start to react and stamped down on the emotion immediately, lifting one hand to rub at the back of his neck as he waved away Rodney’s thanks with the other.
“Anyway,” Rodney continued, pointing a finger at John with a mock glare. “It was your turn - you still owed me from PX3-T97.”
“So I did,” John agreed, smiling at the memory of the look of pride on Rodney's face when he'd single-handedly taken out a landing party of Wraith drones who were attempting to take John captive.
“Yes, so...” Rodney prompted, grinning at John and looking down at his king once more.
With a sigh John reached out and knocked the piece over, conceding the game.
“Thank you,” Rodney said, holding his hand out to John with a small smile pulling on one corner of his mouth. “Good game.”
John shook his head and capitulated good-naturedly, never able to stay pissed at Rodney for long. “Good game,” he repeated as he shook Rodney's hand, the warmth of Rodney's grasp travelling up his arm and into his chest. He allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy Rodney's touch and then pulled back, making sure to cover any hint of his true reaction with a smirk. "Now, you just make sure to remember to give in just as gracefully when I whup your ass in the next East Pier Speedway."
Rodney snorted and started packing up the chess set. "How typical, Colonel," he replied, glancing up at John. "Only a military grunt like you could equate an intricate and intellectually challenging game like chess to racing children's toys.”
John started helping Rodney collect up the rest of the pieces. "Yeah, yeah, just 'cause you haven't beaten me yet," he replied.
"Speed-happy flyboy," Rodney muttered under his breath as he scooped the last of the pieces into the overturned chess board and snapped it closed.
"Geek," John countered, just as quietly.
"Oh and you're not?" Rodney said as he straightened up. "I seem to remember you going on quite a rant last night about the supposedly new mathematical technique of Fourier transfers."
"Must be something wrong with your memory there, Rodney," John answered with a grin as he too rose to his feet. "I'm just a military grunt, remember? How would I know the difference between a Fourier transform and a Fourier transfer?"
"How indeed?" Rodney murmured to himself as he considered John for a long moment, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration. John found himself having to clamp down hard to prevent himself responding to the intensity of Rodney's attention. He shifted on his feet and then forced his body into parade rest, returning Rodney's look with a quirked eyebrow.
"Well?" he asked at last the silence dragged on.
Rodney hummed thoughtfully and dropped his eyes back down to the table. "Nothing, nothing," he said and he bent down to scoop up his ever-present laptop and data-pad. "I should head back to the lab - I've got a simulation due to be completed any time now. Thanks for the break." He shot John a quick grin from over his shoulder as he started to make his way out of the commissary. "Oh," Rodney said suddenly, stopping in place just a few paces away from John and spinning back around to face him. "What's the name of a Banach space, the norm of which is associated to an inner product?”
"A Hilbert space," John replied automatically, only to grimace at his slip.
"See, geek." Rodney pronounced, jabbing a finger in John's direction and bouncing up on his toes in glee.
John shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to hide his answering grin. "Oh, go fiddle with your simulations, McKay," he ordered, waving Rodney away. "I've guns to clean and bullets to count."
~*~
About an hour later found John ambling slowly towards his quarters. He was doing his best to repress the urge to wander down to the labs and see what was going on there - not only had he already had more than his allocated his Rodney-quota for the day, but his team was scheduled for yet another early mission to a potential trading partner the next day. One that he hoped would be more productive than the one they'd been on today. Although the expedition was now in regular contact with Earth, John was determined that Atlantis would remain self-sufficient and continued to act as a reliable trading partner in Pegasus.
It was late and the city was quiet, the corridor lit only by the dim glow emanating from the wall panels. John sighed and reached out with one hand, skimming his fingertips along the corridor wall as he walked, vaguely aware of the comforting pulse and hum of the city at the very edges of his consciousness. As he reached an intersection, he considered the relative merits of each direction. The right-hand fork would take him down towards his quarters and bed, going left would lead him across to the west transporters and the lure of the science labs and if he were to go straight on he could access the balcony that overlooked the south pier and, beyond that, the Lantean ocean. He vacillated in the centre for a moment, torn between all three options. Ultimately however his feet took him forwards, lured by the prospect of quiet contemplation.
The balcony doors hissed open on his approach and the cool sea breeze ruffled his hair as he stepped outside. He made his way to the balcony's edge, letting his gaze sweep over the sparkling city spread out before him. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he studied his glittering city, admiring the golden glow of her lights and the dark heights of her turrets and towers. Beyond the shining lights lay the dark ocean, the ever-moving surface of which reflected glow of the city and the light of the low-hanging moon. It was an overcast night, the wind off the ocean had a nip to it and he could only just make out a few stars twinkling faintly through the thick cloud cover.
Atlantis, John thought to himself, turning the word over in his mind as he surveyed the scene, the lost city. It was so alien a concept – both literally and figuratively – so completely different from the countryside where he'd been born. Different too from the myriad of other places in which he’d found himself during the course of his life – the baking dry heat and dust of Afghanistan or the icy expanse of white emptiness that was Antarctica. The strange thing was that Atlantis was alien no longer. Or rather, put more correctly, it was he who was the alien – he and the entire expedition, trespassers in a galaxy that was not their own.
Yet even that was changing as, over the years, they'd come to make both Atlantis and Pegasus their home. They'd made both friends and enemies, benefited from amazing technologies and tried their best to repay help received in kind. They'd save the day numerous times, but had also brought destruction down on both themselves and others. They weren't perfect; they'd made mistakes, but they hadn't given in – they'd hard fought for the right to live here and many of their own had died for the privilege.
And, for the most part, they'd been accepted. John could feel it every time Atlantis responded to his mental commands, could see it in the pride and dedication with which Teyla and Ronon served on his team, and recognised it in himself whenever he risked his life to protect the galaxy he'd come to recognise as his true home.
The soft sound of the balcony door opening behind him told him he was no longer alone. "You're out late, Sheppard," a deep voice rumbled. John turned to see Ronon step out into the night, the material of his shirt slightly damp and clinging to his chest, indicating he'd probably just come from the gym. "You should have let me know,” Ronon continued with a grin. “I could have used a sparring partner.”
John snorted at that and shook his head, "Nah, you already had a piece of me this morning – that, plus today's mission, has been more than enough for me for one day.”
Ronon grunted. “Yeah,” he said, coming to stand beside John at the balcony's edge. “You sure got enough of a workout running after McKay.”
Something in John tensed up in surprise at the censure in Ronon's tone. Sure, he and Ronon were close – how could they not be after more than a year spent fighting shoulder-to-shoulder? But this, this whatever it was he had with Rodney, was a little too close. John automatically fell back on his tried and tested methods of deflection.
“Yeah, well, you know McKay,” he replied lightly, turning away from Ronon to look over the city. “Always in the middle of trouble.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ronon nod slowly, more to himself, John thought, than in answer to John's rhetorical question.
“So what you doin' out here, then?” Ronon asked.
“Enjoying the view,” John replied with practised ease, not yet convinced that Ronon was going to let the subject of Rodney drop. He could still feel the weight of Ronon's sceptical gaze rest upon him, but chose to ignore it. Hopefully if he maintained his wall, Ronon would take the hint and leave well enough alone. After all, Ronon was arguably even less inclined to talk about personal issues than John himself.
“Trying to stay away from McKay's more like it,” he then heard Ronon mumble.
Okay, so maybe not.
John tensed, but held his peace, determined not to rise to the bait. After a few beats he heard Ronon release a huff of breath and then he too turned to face outwards, his attention no longer focused explicitly on John. The silence stretched between them.
“You can't keep fighting for nothing,” Ronon said at last. “It'll wear you down completely if you try – there's gotta be something that keeps building you back up again.”
John considered Ronon's words, recognising how rare it was that Ronon mentioned anything about himself or his past. But who were they talking about now – himself or Ronon? “Sateda?” he ventured at last.
“Maybe, at first at any rate,” Ronon replied slowly. “But then we were losing, dying in our thousands, and even the survival of Sateda wasn't enough to hold me there.” He paused and looked over at John. “Places can be rebuilt; people can't. You should think about that, Sheppard.”
That got John angry, because when had he ever not thought about his people? Everything he did – the command decisions he made, the orders he gave, the calculated risks he took – all of it was for the good of his people. “I do think about them,” he gritted out, his voice low and furious. “All the god-damn time.”
“I know that,” Ronon agreed easily, but there was a depth of emotion on his face that John didn’t quite know how to interpret. “And at first I thought that was a good thing, but now I’m starting to think that it’s just gonna get you killed – like it almost did today.”
John couldn’t think of a good reply to that because, loath as he was to admit it, Ronon had a point. What he’d done during the mission had been reckless, needlessly so. He’d never been reluctant to go behind enemy lines to retrieve a fallen comrade – be it Holland, Teyla or even Sumner – but this time it had been different. Rodney knew what to do in a fight – John had been the one to teach him – but, in the heat of the moment, all John could think about was getting to Rodney and keeping him safe himself. Not because he was the only one who could possibly do it, but because he had to be the one do it.
“There’s nothing wrong with needing something, Sheppard,” Ronon said softly as John continued to hold his tongue. “You just gotta figure out how to get it and keep it without killing yourself in the process.”
But I’m not allowed it. John kept the words inside, but it seemed like Ronon heard them anyway.
“Your military’s got its priorities fucked up, you know that, right?” he said, turning around and heading back towards the doors. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning on the pier.”
John turned his head and saw Ronon off with a wave and a nod. Alone once more, he turned back to face the night, pulling back from where he’d been leaning against the balcony’s railing. With the conversation with Ronon still echoing in his mind, John found himself full of restless energy. Ronon’s words had started him thinking about things he would much rather ignore – truths he'd spent most of his life burying deep within him, ensuring that they'd never see the light of day. He started to pace along the length of the balcony, his strides long and quick as he attempted to outrun his thoughts.
Rodney – things always seemed to come back to Rodney.
John quickened his pace as he left the balcony and broke into a jog through the deserted corridors, his unwanted thoughts hot on his heels.
Like many soldiers, he always found it difficult to unwind after a dangerous mission, something of which neither his stints in Afghanistan nor his years on Atlantis had been able to cure him. Not only that, but it was also a problem which had worsened appreciably over time. And, as reluctant as John was to dwell too closely on his emotions, even he could not help but eventually notice the positive correlation between his enjoyment of Rodney's company and his post-mission distress on occasions when Rodney's life had been placed in jeopardy.
His mind flashed back briefly to the day’s mission – the sight of Rodney falling to the ground, the blood running freely down his face – and he picked up his pace once more, moving from a jog into a full-out run.
Unfortunately, his personal myopia had meant that he'd stumbled across that particular piece of insight far too late to do anything about it. He knew that he’d already become all too attached to his coping mechanism for dealing with the aftermath of such missions – otherwise known as spending time relaxing with Rodney. Naturally, the outcome of this merely led to a strengthening of his feelings for Rodney, which meant his reactions to threats to Rodney's life were attenuated accordingly. And so on and so forth until John was forced to acknowledge that there was a fairly large personal epiphany looming just on the horizon that he was going to have to face at some point, regardless of how hard he may fight to remain blind to it.
John came to an abrupt halt – slamming the lid firmly closed on his thoughts as he did so, determined to go no further with that particular line of thinking. Struggling to regain his breath, he found himself thinking back to Ronon’s parting comment about the fucked upped-ness of the US military and wondered whether or not that was really the extent of his problem.
“Yeah,” he said aloud, agreeing wholeheartedly with Ronon’s final assessment. The trouble was there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about the situation. He shook his head and spoke his final words out into the night. “But they’re not as fucked up as I am.”
~*~
Read Networked part two here.
Author:
the_cephalopodRating: NC-17
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Word Count: ~52,000
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, they are not mine...
Acknowledgements: As always, many thanks go to my wonderful betas:
sgamadison for her support all the way along with this story and, not least, for ensuring John didn't head off into psycho territory. Also to zinfic for her sterling work pointing out my wonky tenses. All remaining mistakes are my own.Author's Notes: Written for the utterly lovely
bluespirit_star for the handmade meme that was going around *ages* ago. She wanted pining!John and oblivious!Rodney and I have done my best to oblige! ♥Summary: John wasn't the most open of people at the best of times and sharing his mind with Rodney McKay was certainly the one thing he didn't need...
"Get down, McKay!" John shouted urgently. With his P-90 clutched tightly in his hands, he started sprinting as fast as he could towards where Rodney stood, as per usual, right slap-bang in the middle of a mission gone sour. As he ran, John could hear the pulse of Ronon's energy pistol and then the staccato of Teyla's P-90 behind him as they attempted to hold back the attacking soldiers. However, despite their best efforts, some of the enemy bullets were getting through. Some part of John's mind was aware that what he was doing was foolish – running out into the open in the middle of a fire-fight - but the larger part of him couldn't care less. All he knew was that he needed to get Rodney out of the line of fire before he managed to get himself shot. Or worse.
Rodney jerked and spun around as he heard John's shout over the sound of gunfire that echoed all around them. As he did so, a few rounds impacted on the stone pillars behind him, sending shards of rock flying. Rodney let out a cry of pain as one hit him in the face and John saw a trickle of red well up on Rodney's forehead. Too late, he was going to be too late. Gritting his teeth, John forced himself to run faster, willing his body to obey his mind even as his legs burned with the lactic acid build-up and his breath tore painfully at his lungs. Although always on high-alert during first contact situations and well-used to Pegasus's tricks, the speed with which this particular meeting had gone all to hell had surprised even John. Neither Teyla's diplomacy nor Ronon's intimidation tactics had been able to avert the current fire-fight and the best John could hope for now was to get his team out of there in one piece.
Another flurry of bullets flew past his head and Rodney dropped suddenly to the ground. John's heart lurched painfully in his chest and seemed to stop beating. With a final burst of speed, he managed to reach Rodney just in time to catch him as he fell, wrapping an arm tightly about Rodney's waist and hauling Rodney's body up against his own. He resisted the urge to let loose on their attackers with his weapon in favour of getting Rodney to safety; he knew he could trust Teyla and Ronon to keep them covered as best they could. Glancing around hurriedly, he pulled Rodney backwards and managed to get them both down into the questionable cover of a large bush, hoping that the foliage would hide them sufficiently from view. He needed time to find out just how badly Rodney had been hurt and how best to get him out of the mess into which their mission had rapidly descended.
The blood running freely down Rodney's face captured John's attention and, for a brief moment, it was all John could do to hold it together. All of his instincts were screaming at him to seek vengeance – to start fighting back hard and not stop until all the bastards who’d dared to attack his team and his scientist were dead. Thankfully, his military training kicked in and he managed to get a handle on his rage. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on Rodney, channelling his anger into action.
“I'm having words with Lorne when we get back,” John muttered as he did his best to pull Rodney with him further into the undergrowth. “The next ambush was definitely supposed to have been on one of his missions.”
“You make sure you do that,” came a muzzy voice from below. "Then it would be Parrish being bodily pulled through alien vegetation of questionable origin and at least he'd be able to appreciate the experience."
John looked down and found himself staring into Rodney's bleary blue eyes, relieved beyond measure to hear the familiar sound of Rodney's complaints despite the blood that welling up copiously from the gash in his forehead. His heart stuttered back up into an uneasy rhythm and John couldn't stop a grin spreading across his features even as he berated himself internally for his weakness. “Hey, Rodney” he said, grateful that his voice remained steady in the face of his overwhelming relief. “You doing alright?”
“No, of course I'm not doing all right,” Rodney huffed, batting a leaf aside with a hand and regarding John askance. He did, however, shift in John's hold, pulling back and then shuffling around so that he was crouched beside John rather than leaning up against him. To John's further relief, the complaints didn't stop. “I'm currently bleeding from my head, trapped in the middle of what is most likely a carnivorous alien cabbage plant and being used for target practice by a bunch of blood-thirsty heathens with an unhealthy appreciation for guns and, thankfully, atrocious aim. None of this can possibly be considered as 'doing all right'.”
As if to prove his point, another burst of gunfire whipped over their heads causing the large fleshy leaves of their cover to sway slightly and underlying John's need to get Rodney to a more secure location and then see to the rest of his team. "Can you walk?" he asked Rodney. "We need to get out of here."
"Yes, I can walk," Rodney replied at once. His tone was dismissive, but his eyes were wide and just a little scared. The dark red blood still spilling down Rodney's face from the inch long gash on his forehead was running dangerously close to his to his eyes. It stood out in stark contrast to Rodney's pale skin and John noticed that his hands were shaking slightly as he fumbled with his vest. “I would, however, like to stop myself from bleeding out first.”
“Here, let me,” John said, reaching out to still Rodney's hands with his own, plucking the white handkerchief from Rodney's grasp as he did so. He dabbed at Rodney's cut carefully, wiping the blood out of Rodney's eye and off his forehead with the folded cloth, steadying Rodney's face by cupping Rodney's cheek with his left hand.
John tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but it was hard. The sounds of the battle still raging around them were distracting and the adrenaline was still pumping furiously through John's system. He blocked out the noise forcibly, focusing all his attention on Rodney instead. He gently held Rodney's face in his hands, tilting Rodney's head to one side so that he could attend to the cut. He felt a small thrum of warmth start to glow in his chest as he looked at Rodney, but quashed that feeling too; it was equally, if not more, distracting. He moved quickly, dabbing at the blood with a sterile wipe, wincing in sympathy as Rodney gasped in pain.
"Hey," John said, “I'm almost done.” Having cleared up most of the blood, he put a couple of butterfly plasters over the cut to help hold it together. “There – good as new,” he said as he pulled back. “Did you get hit any place else?”
“No,” Rodney replied, “just winded when I ducked down.” Rodney still looked rather pale and John found that he automatically wanted to comfort Rodney. He started to reach out to touch Rodney, but was able to resist at the last moment, his hand clenching into a fist before it could make contact. After all, this was about Rodney, not John.
"Look, we're gonna be fine,” he said. “Ronon and Teyla are out there holding their own and we're just gonna head through here and then circle out and around the monument so we can double back on their position. It'll be a cakewalk, you'll see." He put as much confidence into his tone as he could in an attempt to buoy Rodney's spirits.
Rodney snorted his efforts; he obviously remained at least partially unconvinced. Nevertheless, he did rally, sighing and then nodding his acceptance. "Okay," he replied, his hands moving down to his thigh-holster and pulling out his Berretta. “Let's do this, then.” He checked his weapon's bullet chamber and then snapped the mechanism closed, his hands steady once more and his movements sure and strong. "But if we get killed, it's totally your fault."
John grinned and clapped Rodney on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger there for just a moment, soaking up the heat he could feel radiating through Rodney's clothes. After a couple beats, he made himself pull back and fixed his familiar smirk in place. “Fine,” he said, “but there'll be no death today - this is just Pegasus reminding us who's really in charge. We just gotta stay cool, do our thing and we'll be home again in no time.”
In reality, 'no time' turned out to be approximately an hour later – the vast majority of which John and Rodney spent scrambling their way through the equivalent of the giant Pegasus cabbage patch, in an effort to avoid the numerous bands of soldiers patrolling the area, before they were able to find their way safely back to Teyla and Ronon. Of course, by that time Teyla and Ronon had successfully fought off the soldiers tailing them and were waiting by the jumper. John did his best to ignore both the concerned look Teyla sent him and the rather more pissed off look on Ronon’s face. It didn’t matter what they thought – not about this. He was team leader and he’d made a call, Rodney was safe, so it had been the right one. He likewise ignored the little voice in his head, the one that sounded remarkably like Elizabeth, that was saying that maybe he wouldn’t be so lucky the next time and asked him if he’d have chosen to act differently had it not been Rodney who'd been under attack.
Typically, Rodney had spent practically the whole time they’d been rooting through the undergrowth complaining about John's abysmal sense of direction, but as Rodney himself had not had any better suggestions as to the correct way to turn, John had tried not to let it get to him. After all, their getting lost this time had less to do with his sense of direction (or lack thereof) and more to do with the planet's unstable magnetic field and the fact that John was trying to save Rodney's life by not leading him back out into the middle of a group of trigger-happy soldiers. When John had tried to express these things to Rodney – calmly and with much patience, of course – Rodney had merely rolled his eyes, mumbled something derogatory about military intelligence, and whacked John with a cabbage leaf. John had tried not to let that get to him either.
Now they were once again on Atlantis, thoroughly de-briefed and comprehensively de-cabbaged, and John was attempting to get himself back on an even keel after the stresses of the mission. He glanced over at Rodney, grinning gleefully in the chair across the table from him, and released a breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding.
“And that's checkmate,” Rodney announced with a flourish, his voice pulling John back to the present.
“Hey, no way,” John complained with a frown, contesting Rodney's victory more out of habit now than any real belief that Rodney was wrong about the checkmate. At the moment John was happy to lose countless games of chess to Rodney, just so long as he could see Rodney sitting opposite him - alive and whole.
“Oh, knock it off, Sheppard,” came Rodney's reply as he crossed his arms over his chest and pinned John with a glare. “You're mated and you know it. Now give in gracefully.”
That made John snort. “Oh, like you do?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and letting the familiar pattern of their banter slowly ease away the tension that had built inside him during the day's mission.
Rodney frowned at John's crack. “I'll have you know that was a very special case,” he huffed. “I'd just come off from pulling a double shift and I was also no doubt fighting off that Illuvian flu bug thing that Lorne's team brought back from P3T-974.”
“Of course you were, buddy,” John said, nodding in mock agreement.
“Oh, you're just bitter,” Rodney countered, dismissing John's sarcasm with a wave of his hand. “What does that make it now? Fifteen games to four so far this year?”
“Oh, no you don't,” John countered with a grin. “It's only fourteen to four as you very well know.”
“Whatever,” Rodney agreed, surveying the chessboard and looking pointedly at John's king.
"You know, I've got a pretty good excuse this time round," he said. "I did save your life today.” His eye’s flicked briefly to the treated cut on Rodney’s forehead and he had to work hard to contain the little burst of anger seeing the injury elicited.
“Got me lost, don't you mean?” Rodney countered, but he was smiling.
John merely raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, and saved my life,” Rodney continued at John's look. “Thank you,” his tone was serious.
John felt himself start to react and stamped down on the emotion immediately, lifting one hand to rub at the back of his neck as he waved away Rodney’s thanks with the other.
“Anyway,” Rodney continued, pointing a finger at John with a mock glare. “It was your turn - you still owed me from PX3-T97.”
“So I did,” John agreed, smiling at the memory of the look of pride on Rodney's face when he'd single-handedly taken out a landing party of Wraith drones who were attempting to take John captive.
“Yes, so...” Rodney prompted, grinning at John and looking down at his king once more.
With a sigh John reached out and knocked the piece over, conceding the game.
“Thank you,” Rodney said, holding his hand out to John with a small smile pulling on one corner of his mouth. “Good game.”
John shook his head and capitulated good-naturedly, never able to stay pissed at Rodney for long. “Good game,” he repeated as he shook Rodney's hand, the warmth of Rodney's grasp travelling up his arm and into his chest. He allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy Rodney's touch and then pulled back, making sure to cover any hint of his true reaction with a smirk. "Now, you just make sure to remember to give in just as gracefully when I whup your ass in the next East Pier Speedway."
Rodney snorted and started packing up the chess set. "How typical, Colonel," he replied, glancing up at John. "Only a military grunt like you could equate an intricate and intellectually challenging game like chess to racing children's toys.”
John started helping Rodney collect up the rest of the pieces. "Yeah, yeah, just 'cause you haven't beaten me yet," he replied.
"Speed-happy flyboy," Rodney muttered under his breath as he scooped the last of the pieces into the overturned chess board and snapped it closed.
"Geek," John countered, just as quietly.
"Oh and you're not?" Rodney said as he straightened up. "I seem to remember you going on quite a rant last night about the supposedly new mathematical technique of Fourier transfers."
"Must be something wrong with your memory there, Rodney," John answered with a grin as he too rose to his feet. "I'm just a military grunt, remember? How would I know the difference between a Fourier transform and a Fourier transfer?"
"How indeed?" Rodney murmured to himself as he considered John for a long moment, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration. John found himself having to clamp down hard to prevent himself responding to the intensity of Rodney's attention. He shifted on his feet and then forced his body into parade rest, returning Rodney's look with a quirked eyebrow.
"Well?" he asked at last the silence dragged on.
Rodney hummed thoughtfully and dropped his eyes back down to the table. "Nothing, nothing," he said and he bent down to scoop up his ever-present laptop and data-pad. "I should head back to the lab - I've got a simulation due to be completed any time now. Thanks for the break." He shot John a quick grin from over his shoulder as he started to make his way out of the commissary. "Oh," Rodney said suddenly, stopping in place just a few paces away from John and spinning back around to face him. "What's the name of a Banach space, the norm of which is associated to an inner product?”
"A Hilbert space," John replied automatically, only to grimace at his slip.
"See, geek." Rodney pronounced, jabbing a finger in John's direction and bouncing up on his toes in glee.
John shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to hide his answering grin. "Oh, go fiddle with your simulations, McKay," he ordered, waving Rodney away. "I've guns to clean and bullets to count."
About an hour later found John ambling slowly towards his quarters. He was doing his best to repress the urge to wander down to the labs and see what was going on there - not only had he already had more than his allocated his Rodney-quota for the day, but his team was scheduled for yet another early mission to a potential trading partner the next day. One that he hoped would be more productive than the one they'd been on today. Although the expedition was now in regular contact with Earth, John was determined that Atlantis would remain self-sufficient and continued to act as a reliable trading partner in Pegasus.
It was late and the city was quiet, the corridor lit only by the dim glow emanating from the wall panels. John sighed and reached out with one hand, skimming his fingertips along the corridor wall as he walked, vaguely aware of the comforting pulse and hum of the city at the very edges of his consciousness. As he reached an intersection, he considered the relative merits of each direction. The right-hand fork would take him down towards his quarters and bed, going left would lead him across to the west transporters and the lure of the science labs and if he were to go straight on he could access the balcony that overlooked the south pier and, beyond that, the Lantean ocean. He vacillated in the centre for a moment, torn between all three options. Ultimately however his feet took him forwards, lured by the prospect of quiet contemplation.
The balcony doors hissed open on his approach and the cool sea breeze ruffled his hair as he stepped outside. He made his way to the balcony's edge, letting his gaze sweep over the sparkling city spread out before him. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he studied his glittering city, admiring the golden glow of her lights and the dark heights of her turrets and towers. Beyond the shining lights lay the dark ocean, the ever-moving surface of which reflected glow of the city and the light of the low-hanging moon. It was an overcast night, the wind off the ocean had a nip to it and he could only just make out a few stars twinkling faintly through the thick cloud cover.
Atlantis, John thought to himself, turning the word over in his mind as he surveyed the scene, the lost city. It was so alien a concept – both literally and figuratively – so completely different from the countryside where he'd been born. Different too from the myriad of other places in which he’d found himself during the course of his life – the baking dry heat and dust of Afghanistan or the icy expanse of white emptiness that was Antarctica. The strange thing was that Atlantis was alien no longer. Or rather, put more correctly, it was he who was the alien – he and the entire expedition, trespassers in a galaxy that was not their own.
Yet even that was changing as, over the years, they'd come to make both Atlantis and Pegasus their home. They'd made both friends and enemies, benefited from amazing technologies and tried their best to repay help received in kind. They'd save the day numerous times, but had also brought destruction down on both themselves and others. They weren't perfect; they'd made mistakes, but they hadn't given in – they'd hard fought for the right to live here and many of their own had died for the privilege.
And, for the most part, they'd been accepted. John could feel it every time Atlantis responded to his mental commands, could see it in the pride and dedication with which Teyla and Ronon served on his team, and recognised it in himself whenever he risked his life to protect the galaxy he'd come to recognise as his true home.
The soft sound of the balcony door opening behind him told him he was no longer alone. "You're out late, Sheppard," a deep voice rumbled. John turned to see Ronon step out into the night, the material of his shirt slightly damp and clinging to his chest, indicating he'd probably just come from the gym. "You should have let me know,” Ronon continued with a grin. “I could have used a sparring partner.”
John snorted at that and shook his head, "Nah, you already had a piece of me this morning – that, plus today's mission, has been more than enough for me for one day.”
Ronon grunted. “Yeah,” he said, coming to stand beside John at the balcony's edge. “You sure got enough of a workout running after McKay.”
Something in John tensed up in surprise at the censure in Ronon's tone. Sure, he and Ronon were close – how could they not be after more than a year spent fighting shoulder-to-shoulder? But this, this whatever it was he had with Rodney, was a little too close. John automatically fell back on his tried and tested methods of deflection.
“Yeah, well, you know McKay,” he replied lightly, turning away from Ronon to look over the city. “Always in the middle of trouble.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ronon nod slowly, more to himself, John thought, than in answer to John's rhetorical question.
“So what you doin' out here, then?” Ronon asked.
“Enjoying the view,” John replied with practised ease, not yet convinced that Ronon was going to let the subject of Rodney drop. He could still feel the weight of Ronon's sceptical gaze rest upon him, but chose to ignore it. Hopefully if he maintained his wall, Ronon would take the hint and leave well enough alone. After all, Ronon was arguably even less inclined to talk about personal issues than John himself.
“Trying to stay away from McKay's more like it,” he then heard Ronon mumble.
Okay, so maybe not.
John tensed, but held his peace, determined not to rise to the bait. After a few beats he heard Ronon release a huff of breath and then he too turned to face outwards, his attention no longer focused explicitly on John. The silence stretched between them.
“You can't keep fighting for nothing,” Ronon said at last. “It'll wear you down completely if you try – there's gotta be something that keeps building you back up again.”
John considered Ronon's words, recognising how rare it was that Ronon mentioned anything about himself or his past. But who were they talking about now – himself or Ronon? “Sateda?” he ventured at last.
“Maybe, at first at any rate,” Ronon replied slowly. “But then we were losing, dying in our thousands, and even the survival of Sateda wasn't enough to hold me there.” He paused and looked over at John. “Places can be rebuilt; people can't. You should think about that, Sheppard.”
That got John angry, because when had he ever not thought about his people? Everything he did – the command decisions he made, the orders he gave, the calculated risks he took – all of it was for the good of his people. “I do think about them,” he gritted out, his voice low and furious. “All the god-damn time.”
“I know that,” Ronon agreed easily, but there was a depth of emotion on his face that John didn’t quite know how to interpret. “And at first I thought that was a good thing, but now I’m starting to think that it’s just gonna get you killed – like it almost did today.”
John couldn’t think of a good reply to that because, loath as he was to admit it, Ronon had a point. What he’d done during the mission had been reckless, needlessly so. He’d never been reluctant to go behind enemy lines to retrieve a fallen comrade – be it Holland, Teyla or even Sumner – but this time it had been different. Rodney knew what to do in a fight – John had been the one to teach him – but, in the heat of the moment, all John could think about was getting to Rodney and keeping him safe himself. Not because he was the only one who could possibly do it, but because he had to be the one do it.
“There’s nothing wrong with needing something, Sheppard,” Ronon said softly as John continued to hold his tongue. “You just gotta figure out how to get it and keep it without killing yourself in the process.”
But I’m not allowed it. John kept the words inside, but it seemed like Ronon heard them anyway.
“Your military’s got its priorities fucked up, you know that, right?” he said, turning around and heading back towards the doors. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning on the pier.”
John turned his head and saw Ronon off with a wave and a nod. Alone once more, he turned back to face the night, pulling back from where he’d been leaning against the balcony’s railing. With the conversation with Ronon still echoing in his mind, John found himself full of restless energy. Ronon’s words had started him thinking about things he would much rather ignore – truths he'd spent most of his life burying deep within him, ensuring that they'd never see the light of day. He started to pace along the length of the balcony, his strides long and quick as he attempted to outrun his thoughts.
Rodney – things always seemed to come back to Rodney.
John quickened his pace as he left the balcony and broke into a jog through the deserted corridors, his unwanted thoughts hot on his heels.
Like many soldiers, he always found it difficult to unwind after a dangerous mission, something of which neither his stints in Afghanistan nor his years on Atlantis had been able to cure him. Not only that, but it was also a problem which had worsened appreciably over time. And, as reluctant as John was to dwell too closely on his emotions, even he could not help but eventually notice the positive correlation between his enjoyment of Rodney's company and his post-mission distress on occasions when Rodney's life had been placed in jeopardy.
His mind flashed back briefly to the day’s mission – the sight of Rodney falling to the ground, the blood running freely down his face – and he picked up his pace once more, moving from a jog into a full-out run.
Unfortunately, his personal myopia had meant that he'd stumbled across that particular piece of insight far too late to do anything about it. He knew that he’d already become all too attached to his coping mechanism for dealing with the aftermath of such missions – otherwise known as spending time relaxing with Rodney. Naturally, the outcome of this merely led to a strengthening of his feelings for Rodney, which meant his reactions to threats to Rodney's life were attenuated accordingly. And so on and so forth until John was forced to acknowledge that there was a fairly large personal epiphany looming just on the horizon that he was going to have to face at some point, regardless of how hard he may fight to remain blind to it.
John came to an abrupt halt – slamming the lid firmly closed on his thoughts as he did so, determined to go no further with that particular line of thinking. Struggling to regain his breath, he found himself thinking back to Ronon’s parting comment about the fucked upped-ness of the US military and wondered whether or not that was really the extent of his problem.
“Yeah,” he said aloud, agreeing wholeheartedly with Ronon’s final assessment. The trouble was there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about the situation. He shook his head and spoke his final words out into the night. “But they’re not as fucked up as I am.”
Read Networked part two here.
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