Stockholm Syndrome (Tearing Down the House), by mousewitchy [Left Behind challenge]
Title: Stockholm Syndrome (Tearing Down the House)
Author: mousewitchy
Rated: PG-13, for language and intense situations.
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, McKay/OMC, then McKay/Sheppard again
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: The title’s pretty self-explanatory.
A/N: When I double-checked it this week, I found that Stockholm syndrome is usually described as a situation in which “small acts of kindness by the captor are magnified”, among other things, which enables the victim to form an artificial bond with their captor. There is no torture, no abuse, and no non-con in this fic. None. If that’s your cup of tea, you won’t find it here. Sorry.
Thanks as always to the lovely mamazoot, for encouragement and cheerleading, and my heartfelt gratitude goes out to brighidestone, for brilliant and last-minute beta work. Thank you!
ETA: Teeny sequel-snippet written in comments. *g*
1. Shattered (House of Cards)
*
The first few weeks are the hardest: small white cell, no windows (except for one on the door, at the top), a pallet, a bucket, and sometimes a tray of food he can’t eat because he’s already being eaten alive from the inside.
Wide-open spaces, he thinks. I’m in wide-open spaces. But it doesn’t work, of course, because the only wide-open space in the cell with him is the one in his side.
It’s agony when he moves or coughs, and only when Rodney holds very still does it dull down to a sharp ache that gnaws at him constantly, vicious and hungry like the pull of his (mostly) empty belly.
He tries not to hyperventilate and tells himself it has everything to do with the wound, and nothing at all to do with how much air fits in a six by six space, minus the combined volume of a pallet, a bucket, and himself.
Not that Rodney’s thought about it much.
That slow, steady breaths help conserve his possibly limited oxygen supply is just a lucky coincidence.
Later, he thinks he may have been ill, because his memories of the place seem fractured and feverish. He remembers a doctor, a man with broad, gentle hands and a soothing voice, and-he thinks and knows it’s just another sign of how very far gone he is-a kind face.
He shouldn’t trust these people; he knows that. He’s been kidnapped. He’s been shot. He’s being held hostage.
But he’s pathetically grateful for the feel of a cool, dry hand against his damp, over-warm skin and the cup against his lips: water, clear and blessedly chilled against his dry, cracking throat.
The doctor could be a plant; anyone could be. They’re probably monitoring everything in his claustrophobic cell, feeding him lies, waiting for him to crack.
It’s not his fault. When they tell him it was an accident, Rodney can’t help it. He believes them.
Of course they didn’t mean to shoot him.
His guards are plants. Chances are the doctor is, too. They’ve probably told him what to say; it’s like he’s reading from a script.
Rodney can’t afford to trust these people; he knows that.
But when the doctor tells him that he was the only one wounded, that the rest of his team made it out okay, well.
Rodney’s so grateful to hear Sheppard made it back to Atlantis alive that he can’t bring himself to question it-neither the truth of the statement, nor the Korellians motives for telling him. They don’t have to tell him, he thinks. They don’t have to tell him, except Jonah does. When Rodney begs to know what had happened, Jonah bends the rules to tell him.
To make him feel better, Jonah had said, so he could rest-just like he would for any patient. Rodney knows better.
Jonah didn’t have to tell him, but he did.
And when Rodney asks (begs, really; it’s not dignified, and it’s certainly not smart to clue his captors in to such an exploitable weakness, but he’s desperate and really, haven’t these people ever heard of claustrophobes?) for a bigger cell, or maybe even just one with windows, Jonah tells him they’d be willing to move him to the infirmary-would have moved him days ago, in fact, if they could only have his word that he won’t try to escape; and Rodney says yes, yes, fine, whatever it takes, as long as there are windows. He doesn’t have to worry about escaping, anyway, because Sheppard is fine, his team is fine and they’ll be back to break him out any day now.
He even says the last part out loud; says it over and over again like a mantra, tells himself as often as he can. He doesn’t need to worry about escaping. Sheppard’s out there. They’re coming for him. They’d never leave him behind.
He tells Jonah, too, when he comes.
Jonah only looks at him, features drawn in sympathy, and changes the bandages in silence.
Rodney looks away; he can’t bear to face the pity in the other man’s eyes, can’t bear to think about what put it there because that would mean thinking about the one thing he’s been deliberately avoiding since he got there, the thing they’ve told him from the beginning, even more dangerous than his slowly diminishing supply of air.
They don’t want you back.
It’s psychological terrorism; they’re watching, waiting for him to break. Maybe he already has.
He can’t afford to trust these people; Rodney knows that. He can’t believe a word they say.
It’s not his fault, Rodney thinks, but he does.
He can’t afford not to.
*
Rodney’s had hours to go over every moment in his mind, every waking moment of every day he spent in the city he’d thought was his home.
He’s relived every crisis, every word they’d ever said to him (“I had a feeling,” said Elizabeth as the personal shield fell away from his chest. She’d thought he was a coward.), every failure (The Arcturus project on Doranda. “That may take a while,” Sheppard had said, his face stony and unforgiving.), every embarrassment (“I thought you were very brave,” said Teyla, but she was smirking. She probably laughed at him later. The sneer on Ronon’s face before he cut the snare and sent Rodney tumbling none-too-gently to the ground. Ford: “I know what you’re like with weapons.” Lorne. Caldwell. Cadman: “I guarantee it was more traumatic for me.” Griffin. Zelenka.)
He’s been dissecting every touch, every sideways glance, and every offhand comment looking for the clue that will tell him why they’ve done it. He’s re-examined every detail, every overture of friendship, and every conspiratorial smile.
The answers are the same every time. They’ve left him behind.
It takes weeks of introspection and forced inactivity while his traitorous mind spins, turning every moment over, twisting every memory to try and make it fit until, suddenly, it does. Long-forgotten hurts tumble together, ill-timed entrances and half-remembered snatches of conversation fall into place and Rodney understands. Everything makes sense.
He learns to hate them, over time, learns to loathe the very memory of them, learns to doubt every whispered not-promise Sheppard ever made against his skin.
Rodney’s spent all of his adult life moving from place to place; first for university, then back and forth between whatever military installations the United States government deemed necessary. He’s lived in plenty of different places, but he hasn’t been home since he was a kid-and it was home, no matter how dysfunctional it had been, or how happy he’d been to escape. Atlantis was everywhere he’d ever wanted to belong, only now Rodney finds that the home he thought he’d built is crumbling down around him.
Rodney’s not a stupid man. It takes him weeks of contemplation amidst the peaceful greens and blues of the Korellian infirmary, but he knows when to stop fighting the facts. Weeks of despair, of doubt, of broken dreams, and he finally gets it.
They’ve left him behind.
It’s a difficult truth that gets easier with time.
*
There’s plenty of work to be done once he’s healed. At first it’s hectic, frenzied like Atlantis in the weeks before the Wraith siege. The disgracefully low level of technology the Korellians possess keeps Rodney busy from dawn to dusk, working on too little sleep and too much of their detestable stimulant tea. Eventually, though, the hard knot of hurt in his chest begins to loosen. Things settle into a routine: he spends his days in the lab deciphering ten-thousand-year-old Ancient technology, loudly denouncing the tea and extolling the many virtues of coffee.
His nights are full of Jonah.
Jonah has a nice smile, a kind face with wide blue eyes framed by honey-blond hair; more open and honest than John’s ever was, Rodney thinks, and feels an immediate stab of guilt. John Sheppard was charming, all easy inscrutable smile and dark, insincere eyes. It feels almost blasphemous to think of Sheppard next to Jonah, as if Sheppard’s thoughtless duplicity might mar Jonah’s guileless honesty just by association.
Jonah has a nice smile, Rodney thinks. It’s strange at first, fitting in, but the Korellians are a friendly, gracious people, and they accept him into their ranks easily, grateful for the knowledge and the skill that he offers.
They’re good to him-Jonah’s good to him-in ways no one else ever has been.
When he thinks of the Lantians now, the tightness in his chest isn’t the hollow ache of betrayal. It’s hatred, a white-hot sun of fury that threatens to consume him. He feels like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of his previous life, all his impurities burned away.
*
2. Dislocation/Reconstruction (House of Reeds)
*
There had been a revolution in progress when they arrived, Rodney learns. He’d been caught in the crossfire, captured and then liberated days later when the new government came to power.
“I thought you said they didn’t want me escaping,” Rodney says. He looks up from where he’s seated at the desk and pushes his work aside, brows creasing in thought. “I had to promise not to try and escape.”
“You were very feverish.” Jonah brushes gentle fingers through Rodney’s hair. His voice is soothing, patronizing, and it should bother Rodney but it doesn’t. “You weren’t a prisoner. We just didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Rodney frowns. “But-”
“But nothing,” Jonah interrupts patiently. “The guards were there for your protection. You know that. Anyone from the old government might’ve tried to hurt you.”
That could be true. It wasn’t as if Rodney had actually tried to escape. If he had, they might have let him pass.
“Now, if we’re done with that,” Jonah says firmly, clearly indicating that they are, “I have a surprise for you.” He grins, rocking back on his heels in a way Rodney recognizes as his own.
Rodney grins back, conversation forgotten in favor of the way he wants to kiss the corners of Jonah’s shy, sweet smile. “Really?”
Jonah’s smile widens into something impish, and with a flourish he produces a small plastic bag Rodney never expected to see again.
“Coffee?” He says dumbly, and Jonah’s expression segues into uncertainty.
“You used to talk about it all the time, and I know you don’t like the tea.” Jonah shifts, disappointment clear in the uncomfortable line of his body. “So with the new trade agreement, I thought … I’m sorry. I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Rodney’s spent the last eight months wishing wistfully for coffee; only now, confronted with the incontrovertible proof of his betrayal, what hope he’s clung to, whatever illusions he’s had that they were ever coming back for him are gone, washed away by the sight of a one-pound bag held tightly in his lover’s fist and the realization that they were willing to trade with the people who took him.
Jonah’s still looking at him, nervous and unsure, teeth worrying at his lower lip the way he does sometimes when he doesn’t know how Rodney’s going to react. The package hangs there between them, familiar magenta tones clashing with the soft blue of the lab; it’s a pointed reminder of the Lantian treaty, the way Atlantis and her people abandoned him here, and Rodney’s never wanted anything less.
But Rodney thinks, He brought me Starbucks, and it makes his mouth dry and his chest ache with affection.
“Thank you,” Rodney says hoarsely, and takes the package, tucking it away in a drawer he knows he’ll never open. Pulling Jonah close, he presses his lips to the soft skin beneath the other man’s ear and closes his eyes. “But I think I’d prefer the tea.”
Jonah turns his head then, and kisses him slowly, languorously. “There’s tea at home, you know.”
“Oh?” Something flutters unexpectedly in Rodney’s stomach. “Well. I’m about done here. I should be there in a few hours.”
“You work too hard,” Jonah laughs. “Take a day off, you deserve one. C’mon.” He tugs Rodney towards the door and Rodney lets him.
They’re not coming for him.
It doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t need them anymore.
He’s home.
*
Weir is coming, Jonah tells him one night. Prime Minister Lucien wants to re-negotiate the treaty to include an exchange of technologies; he’s hoping that with the advances they’ve made since Rodney’s arrival, he’ll be able to persuade them into a treaty as equals.
She’s bringing a delegation, just like last time, and-just like last time-he’s hoping Rodney might take the opportunity to study the sensor arrays in the North Country. They’ve been getting unusual readings again, and Rodney’s the best qualified to work on them.
Plus, Rodney thinks uncharitably, it would keep him nicely occupied and well away from the capital city for the duration of the visit. He regrets it almost immediately; Rodney really is the best qualified for the job, and Lucien’s merely concerned about the effect the Lantians’ presence might have on one of his best scientists.
Rodney can’t exactly blame him. There’s a bag of coffee that’s been in his desk drawer for four months, and he still can’t bring himself to look at it long enough to throw it out. Sometimes just knowing it’s there is too much, and he has to find another lab to work in.
“Rodney?” Jonah says. He rolls over, tangling himself in the sheets. “Are you listening to me?”
“What? Oh yes, yes, of course. I was just … thinking.”
Propping himself up on an elbow, Jonah places a hand on Rodney’s bare chest. “You’re losing weight again,” he observes, and strokes Rodney’s stomach through the sheet. “Soon you’ll just be skin and bones. What were you thinking about?”
“Nothing.” Rodney catches Jonah’s hand in his own and studies it, lacing their fingers together. He doesn’t look at Jonah. “Atlantis.” Just thinking it makes his stomach hurt; saying it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, makes his gut churn. He thinks he might be sick.
It’s completely irrational, jumping at shadows like this, losing sleep and skipping meals. His old co-workers on Atlantis probably wouldn’t even recognize this new Rodney.
“See?” Jonah huffs out a breath and wiggles closer, running a thumb over Rodney’s knuckles. “You’re upset. Lucien’s right-you should go to the North Country while they’re here. You shouldn’t have to see them again after what they did to you.”
Rodney frowns at their joined hands. Jonah’s right, but-but he wonders how many heads of state take such a personal interest in the private affairs of their scientists. Rodney knows Lucien’s protecting a valuable asset and Jonah’s just worried, but he feels like he’s being sheltered, smothered. Hidden away.
It’s uncomfortably like being managed.
“I was thinking I could stay,” he says slowly, hyperaware of the way his heart thumps faster at the very thought. The room seems smaller, suddenly, in the wake of his announcement; his vision grays a little at the edges. He fidgets with Jonah’s fingers, and finds himself hoping kind of desperately that Jonah will say no, no way, not at all. “The arrays are all networked now, and I could do all the work on them from my lab. It’s probably nothing anyway, and I'd get more done on the hydrodynamics project if I didn't have to go all the way out there.”
Jonah doesn’t say anything but he shifts almost unnoticeably, putting just the tiniest fraction of space between them, and when Rodney looks up, Jonah’s face is guarded and carefully neutral.
“You want to stay,” Jonah says flatly. Rodney’s never seen him look like this, hard-edged and angular; he almost doesn’t recognize his lover in this stranger lying next to him.
Rodney swallows and drops his eyes. “No, I-” His face feels hot, and his hand clammy where it touches Jonah’s. “I don’t, not really. Just, I think I’m finally getting somewhere on that project, and I don’t want to waste any time I could spend on it. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Jonah’s voice has lost its distance, and just like that his entire demeanor changes; he leans closer, pressing their bodies back together, and Rodney exhales in relief.
“Yes, that’s all. You know me-work, work, work.” Rodney chuckles weakly and wiggles his fingers nervously. He can’t begin to articulate what it is that scares him at moments like this; he’s not even sure if he really knows, and it feels ridiculously stupid to be so frightened over nothing.
“Well, I’m sure that’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Lucien.” Jonah and Lucien have known each other since they were children-they’re old friends. “We can probably move you into a different building for the day. The compound you work in is the most secure facility we have available, so they’ll be conducting most of the negotiations there.”
Rodney nods. That makes perfect sense, and lately he’s been more comfortable outside of his own lab anyway.
“It was awful what they did to you,” Jonah settles himself so he’s stretched out next to Rodney, head resting on his shoulder. He makes a face. “They’re disgusting people, and I hate having to deal with them.”
“That’s okay,” Rodney finds himself saying. “We could really use the help.”
Rodney doesn’t sleep much that night; he lies awake and tries not to think of tomorrow, uneasy thoughts punctuated by the soft rise and fall of Jonah’s breathing.
*
3. Relocation/Deconstruction (House of Stone)
*
It eats at Rodney all the next day, how easy it would be to get himself into the compound. His regular lab is there; it’s entirely plausible that he’d have forgotten something crucial.
It’s been a year since they left him here, but it’s not enough to know they did. He has to know why.
Rodney checks his watch and makes the decision, heart pounding. It’s mid-afternoon, the tail end of the lunch break, everybody at loose ends waiting to resume negotiations. If nothing else, Sheppard’s probably wandering around the restricted areas, trying and failing miserably to look nonchalant.
Sheppard’s one of the worst spies ever. Second only to Rodney himself.
“Hey Gwyn,” he says, as casually as possible. “I, ah, left my card at home today-figured I wouldn’t need it since we’re working outside the compound today, but I think I left a data disk in my lab, and I’m not going to get anywhere without it. Could I borrow yours? I could probably run home and grab mine, but it’d take forever.”
It’s got to be the flimsiest excuse in the world, but Gwyn just blinks at him and hands him her security card while he makes the appropriate displays of apology and embarrassment; the next thing he knows, he’s clutching the (blank) data disk in his lab, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he’s about to do.
He used Gwyn’s card to get in. Lucien and Jonah don’t know he’s in the building. Nobody does, except for the guards he passed in the hallway, and chances are they don’t even know he’s not supposed to be there. Rodney feels like a criminal.
He’s not supposed to be there. Rodney promised Jonah this morning that he wouldn’t come, wouldn’t put himself through this. He can imagine what Jonah would say if he found him here, supposedly crucial data disk in hand, two security cards-his and Gwyn’s-and a broken promise. Rodney flushes. The guilt is a palpable thing; he’s burning with it, it’ll be incredible if the guards don’t see it on him at fifty paces.
He’s broken faith enough with Jonah and everyone else, the people who’ve treated him so kindly and taken him in over the last year. He can’t do this. He’ll just go back right now and tell Gwyn he made a mistake. He’ll tell Jonah tonight before someone else does, and next time, he’ll just go study at one of the out of town labs when the Lantians come. It’ll be okay; Rodney will apologize, and Jonah will forgive him.
Rodney closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He shouldn’t have come here. He doesn’t need to know. He’s not going to ruin everything with his ridiculous ideas of closure.
Right.
He’s standing in his lab waiting for the silence to sink in and his hands to stop trembling when a lean form bearing an utterly familiar mop of dark hair slinks by-it’s Sheppard, just where Rodney knew he'd be, casually assessing the other side’s resources and looking for all the world as if he’d gotten lost on the way to the bathroom and only accidentally wandered into the restricted area.
Sheppard’s expression is almost comically surprised; mouth slack, eyes wide and brows raised. As if he hadn’t expected to find him there.
For the first time in over twelve months, Rodney looks at John Sheppard. His body tenses, blood rushing, heart pounding in his ears. His chest is so tight he can hardly breathe.
He wants to rip the man apart with his bare hands. He’s never been so angry in his entire life.
“Rodney,” Sheppard says, like he can’t quite believe it, and his voice is intimate like he still thinks he knows Rodney, like he thinks Rodney still cares about any one of them at all.
The data disk falls, forgotten, to the floor and Rodney clenches his hands into tight, furious fists. “You didn’t come back for me.”
“What? God, Rodney, I can’t- You’re-” Sheppard strides forward like a man possessed, eyes glittering with-something. Something Rodney can’t yet place and isn’t sure he wants to.
Sheppard grabs his arm and Rodney yanks it away savagely. “Don’t touch me.” Sheppard pulls back, perplexed and angry, as if he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it, and that’s just the last straw.
“You left!” Rodney shouts, and he’s well aware that his voice is segueing into hysterical, but he doesn’t care. He’s waited a year to have his say, they just left him there without a word, without so much as goodbye, and this might be the last chance he ever has. “You left me here, all of you, and you never came back for me. You never came back, and you never said why, and did you really expect me to act as if nothing was wrong?”
“Rodney,” Sheppard flounders. “I-”
“No!” Sheppard reaches for him again and Rodney recoils. “No! I don’t want to hear it,” he says, voice cracking, caught somewhere between desperation and fevered, helpless rage. He hasn’t had reason to question his convictions in twelve long months, and he’s not willing to let Sheppard push him into it now. “I don’t want to know what you have to say. I don’t want anything to do with you. Just go back to your damn treaty and stay the hell out of my life.”
“No,” Sheppard says. His voice is low, dangerous, and Rodney’s courage falters for a moment in the face of the conviction he hears in the other man’s voice. “No, Rodney, I will not go back without you. Not this time."
Rodney’s sputtering furiously, but Sheppard’s not listening; he’s pulled his sidearm out, turned partway towards the door and speaking urgently into the radio. “McKay’s alive. Lorne, get Elizabeth and the rest back to the gate as soon as possible. Ronon, we’re in a lab in the east wing-about 50 feet past the bathrooms, turn left and it’s the fourth on the right. Get yourself down here now. Shoot anyone who gets in your way.” He turns back, and Rodney flinches at the expression on his face.
Sheppard’s all controlled fury. His eyes are wild and his every movement tight and purposeful, betraying a barely concealed rage. Rodney takes a startled step back, but recovers. Those are his people that savage will be shooting at.
“Call him off,” he demands. “I’m not leaving, and you’ll never make it out of this building without me. It’s too well guarded. They’ll kill all of you.”
“Right,” Sheppard says, and thumbs his radio. “On second thought-Lorne, why don’t you take the good Minister hostage on your way out? I’d really hate to get shot rescuing a dead man.”
“What? No, no, no, no-no rescuing. I am not going with you! I won't-”
“Yes, Rodney, you will. And you are. Because I’m not leaving without you.” Sheppard clenches his jaw, abruptly cutting himself off. “Look,” he continues, and his voice is strained, deceptively calm. “I don’t know what they told you-“
“They told me the truth!” Rodney says shrilly. “They told me what happened! They-”
“They told us you were dead!” Sheppard snarls. He spits the words out like he’s tasted something foul.
“That’s a lie.” Rodney’s fingernails bite painfully into his palms, fists clenched tightly against the overwhelming urge to hit Sheppard; again and again, until he shuts his stupid mouth and stops telling his stupid lies. He has no business coming back after all this time and saying these things about Jonah, Lucien and Gwyn, Alfric and Raina and Lane. He has no right at all to try and tear Rodney’s life apart again. “A complete and utter fabrication.” Rodney steps forward into Sheppard’s personal space and he’s shaking with the effort it takes not to bring his fist right up into Sheppard’s face.
“Rodney.” Sheppard’s eyes dart sideways, then back. His grip tightens on the 9mm, arm hanging loosely at his side.
“You’re lying. What’s wrong with you? You have no right at all to come here and say that!”
“Rodney.” Sheppard’s got his command voice on; Rodney doesn’t care.
“Shut up,” he says viciously. “Just fucking save it. You mean less than nothing to me. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. You left me. You left me behind.”
Sheppard flinches at that, and Rodney wants to smile. He wants to hurt Sheppard, make him suffer just like Rodney has. He wants to, but there’s a brief surge of satisfaction followed by the same aching hollowness he’s carried around for a year; and it is grossly unfair to realize that it doesn’t make him feel any better-nothing will.
“McKay,” Ronon says behind him, and Rodney whirls around and finds himself nearly eye-to-eye with Ronon’s pistol, choking on his own breath as the gun cocks with its distinctive electrical whine. “Good to see you, too.”
*
Rodney doesn’t say anything as they march him through the gate at gunpoint. He seethes in silence at the sight of the city that betrayed him; doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t say a word to his captors. He’s a prisoner.
They’ll twist every word that comes out of his mouth, so he keeps it stubbornly shut all the way down to the infirmary, through the physical, jaw clenched against the indignity while they stand in a shocked huddle, discussing him in low, worried tones.
Rodney grits his teeth and pretends he doesn’t feel their eyes on him. He keeps his eyes locked on the same section of infirmary wall he’s been watching for the last fifteen minutes. He’s not going to get sucked in.
“He didn’t mean it,” Ronon says, uncharacteristically gentle. He’s towering over Sheppard with an expression of concern. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney sees him shrug. “I’ve seen this before. It happened sometimes on Sateda. People get kidnapped. They forget what’s real.”
“We call it Stockholm syndrome,” Weir says wearily. Rodney has to remind himself he doesn’t care. “It’s actually very common to find it in varying degrees in hostage situations.”
“Stockholm?” Rodney doesn’t have to look to know that Ronon’s expression is a mix of bafflement and bewildered amusement.
“Yeah, Stockholm.” It’s the first Sheppard’s said since they came back through the gate. “It’s a city in Sweden, which is a country on Earth.”
“I thought McKay was from Canada,” Ronon says after a moment, and Sheppard makes a choked sound that might be laughter.
Beckett’s been quiet the whole time, conducting a cursory physical inspection of his unwilling patient. “I hate you all,” Rodney tells him, just to remind them it’s true.
“Aye, lad,” Beckett says sadly, and Rodney almost meets his eyes for one startled second. Beckett’s face is regretful, apologetic. “I’ll bet you do.”
Rodney looks away again.
*
Rodney has a lot of time to think; his room is empty except for the bare essentials, so there’s not much else to do. There’s a lamp on the nightstand next to the bed, two chairs, and a desk that has another lamp and some scientific journals stacked carefully on it.
He hasn’t touched those yet, but he’s sure it’s only a matter of time until he breaks.
Teyla brought them; they couldn’t allow him a laptop, she’d explained apologetically, because Rodney had proven himself more than capable of hacking into the city’s crucial systems on more than one occasion.
It rankles, but Rodney can’t fault their reasoning. Given half a chance, he probably could find a way to make it network with the city. They can’t trust him not to bypass any of the security protocols they have in place. There are marines on his door for that very reason: to make sure he doesn’t try for manual access.
Heightmeyer visits, but Rodney ignores her. They sit in silence for an hour while Kate looks patient and sympathetic, and Rodney looks out the window and thinks about how much he hates the ocean. When she’s gone he paces the room like a caged animal and thinks about the view from his study on Korelin and how he’d give anything at all to be back there drinking tea with Jonah and laughing at the old women’s dire predictions for the winter instead of here in Atlantis, a prisoner watching his life fall apart all over again.
*
Rodney’s still not speaking when Ronon brings him coffee about a week later. It’s not easy-there isn’t anything to do but think and pace-and he gives in and reads the journals just to keep from thinking about what he’s been told. It’s quiet and peaceful, and almost like he’s using their gifts against them.
Ronon lets himself in, pulls up a chair and plants the carafe on the nightstand next to a mug that obviously came from the mess. It's good quality coffee, too, the kind that Rodney might once have been driven to embarrassing extremes to get his hands on.
The aroma fills the room, fragrant and rich, and it makes Rodney sick. His stomach flips lazily and Rodney swallows convulsively as the words on the page in front him blur; his grip on the journal tightens, fingers clenching against the nausea.
“You like it,” Ronon explains, and Rodney doesn’t look at him.
Rodney doesn’t say anything, but he curls his lip in revulsion and pointedly ignores the gift.
Ronon’s unfazed. He shrugs and leans back in the chair, legs spread. “You didn’t think that before.”
It almost isn’t worth hating Ronon Dex, Rodney thinks; everything seems to slide right off of him. For another hour, he seems perfectly content to just sit there in uncomfortable silence while Rodney tries to read, unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional shuffle of feet as he shifts his weight; until Rodney can’t take it anymore and finally speaks.
“What do you want?” Rodney snaps. “I know I’m going out on a limb here, but in spite of the regrettable shortage of ocean-front property in Atlantis, I am sure that there is at least one other window in this city with such a lovely view of the water. So is there a reason you’re here, or have you decided that simply holding me hostage isn’t enough and you’d rather try and drive me slowly insane?”
“Would you like me to leave?” Ronon turns and asks with exaggerated care.
“Yes! Yes, yes, please, by all means-if you’re not going send me home, then kindly leave me alone.” And to Rodney’s surprise, Ronon does.
“Okay.” With little more than a raised eyebrow and a nod, Ronon replaces the chair at the desk and leaves.
Rodney stares at the door in shock until it opens again to admit one of the marines, a fresh-faced young man who wants to know whether he should have some food sent in, or if Rodney’s planning on eating in the mess. Rodney’s dumbfounded enough by the question that he forgets himself and answers before it occurs to him to be suspicious.
He paces the room again-counting his steps, measuring.
He’s a prisoner. They’re only doing this to mess with his head. They’re trying to weaken his resolve. It won’t work.
The next time Heightmeyer comes, Rodney asks her to leave, just to see if she will. He knows she won’t. But she does.
She purses her lips thoughtfully and studies him for a moment, then she gathers her things and goes. It’s unsettling.
Rodney paces the room some more and calculates the combined volume of air held by the main room and the bathroom. The room they have him in isn’t small enough to be claustrophobic, but it still makes him nervous.
And he can open the door anytime he wants.
*
Sheppard doesn’t come until the second week; and when he does, he brings video equipment with him.
There’s a brief scuffle at the door as the marines try to stop him, but Sheppard orders them aside. It’s the same kind of setup they’d used to show Ronan what was left of his homeworld, and Rodney’s chest goes still and tight with panic at the thought of whatever it is Sheppard wants to show him.
“Get out,” Rodney says. Here it comes, he thinks and stands, crossing his arms to hide the way his hands are shaking. This must be what they’ve been building to the whole time. “I don’t want to see you.”
“No.” Sheppard’s face is closed, impassive; mouth set in a stubborn line. “I’m not leaving until you’ve seen this.” He brandishes a DVD, then turns away to fiddle with the equipment. “This is the MALP transmission we received from P3Y-205, two days after you were taken. We saved it.” Sheppard presses a button decisively and steps back to stand next to the whole setup, arms crossed and facing Rodney. “I’m glad we did.”
The screen flares to life, and the bottom drops out of Rodney’s world. Lucien is there, looking sorrowful and worn. He’s holding a backpack and a United States military-issue tactical vest that’s covered in blood and torn through on the right side.
“My sincerest apologies, Dr. Weir,” Lucien tells the camera. “There was an explosion in one of the old government buildings. It killed a great many of my own people as well, but we were able to retrieve these from one of the wings that had been left partially intact …”
He remembers Jonah’s face, then, as they’d marched him through the building. Lucien had been white with fear, but Jonah-Jonah hadn’t been angry, but grief-stricken, and he’d called out to Rodney that he was sorry, that he’d had no choice. Rodney remembers the way Jonah’s voice had cracked, the way his face had twisted in desperate apology as he’d begged Rodney to forgive him, and he knows.
Rodney knows the truth, and it’s agony.
His vision fades out and his knees feel weak. Everything sounds strange, like the rest of the world is light-years away except for the deafening whoosh of his heart, and it’s like he’s been drowning this whole time and he’s finally broken the surface to find that all the warmth he’d thought he’d hoarded was a lie, and truth is he’s been hypothermic and only half-alive all this time.
It’s nothing at all like suffocating. Rodney can’t make his lungs work and he can’t quite catch his breath, but it’s good, like he’s learning to breathe for the first time after 12 months and 14 days of slow asphyxiation.
Rodney gasps and it’s like coming back from the dead for real. He falls to his knees, and then Sheppard-no, John-John is there and he’s got his arms around Rodney and Rodney was wrong. He’s shuddering, shaking so hard he thinks he might be flying apart, and he was right, he’d been betrayed, but he was wrong-it wasn’t Atlantis and it wasn’t John, thank God, and it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.
He’s finally home.
Author: mousewitchy
Rated: PG-13, for language and intense situations.
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, McKay/OMC, then McKay/Sheppard again
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: The title’s pretty self-explanatory.
A/N: When I double-checked it this week, I found that Stockholm syndrome is usually described as a situation in which “small acts of kindness by the captor are magnified”, among other things, which enables the victim to form an artificial bond with their captor. There is no torture, no abuse, and no non-con in this fic. None. If that’s your cup of tea, you won’t find it here. Sorry.
Thanks as always to the lovely mamazoot, for encouragement and cheerleading, and my heartfelt gratitude goes out to brighidestone, for brilliant and last-minute beta work. Thank you!
ETA: Teeny sequel-snippet written in comments. *g*
1. Shattered (House of Cards)
*
The first few weeks are the hardest: small white cell, no windows (except for one on the door, at the top), a pallet, a bucket, and sometimes a tray of food he can’t eat because he’s already being eaten alive from the inside.
Wide-open spaces, he thinks. I’m in wide-open spaces. But it doesn’t work, of course, because the only wide-open space in the cell with him is the one in his side.
It’s agony when he moves or coughs, and only when Rodney holds very still does it dull down to a sharp ache that gnaws at him constantly, vicious and hungry like the pull of his (mostly) empty belly.
He tries not to hyperventilate and tells himself it has everything to do with the wound, and nothing at all to do with how much air fits in a six by six space, minus the combined volume of a pallet, a bucket, and himself.
Not that Rodney’s thought about it much.
That slow, steady breaths help conserve his possibly limited oxygen supply is just a lucky coincidence.
Later, he thinks he may have been ill, because his memories of the place seem fractured and feverish. He remembers a doctor, a man with broad, gentle hands and a soothing voice, and-he thinks and knows it’s just another sign of how very far gone he is-a kind face.
He shouldn’t trust these people; he knows that. He’s been kidnapped. He’s been shot. He’s being held hostage.
But he’s pathetically grateful for the feel of a cool, dry hand against his damp, over-warm skin and the cup against his lips: water, clear and blessedly chilled against his dry, cracking throat.
The doctor could be a plant; anyone could be. They’re probably monitoring everything in his claustrophobic cell, feeding him lies, waiting for him to crack.
It’s not his fault. When they tell him it was an accident, Rodney can’t help it. He believes them.
Of course they didn’t mean to shoot him.
His guards are plants. Chances are the doctor is, too. They’ve probably told him what to say; it’s like he’s reading from a script.
Rodney can’t afford to trust these people; he knows that.
But when the doctor tells him that he was the only one wounded, that the rest of his team made it out okay, well.
Rodney’s so grateful to hear Sheppard made it back to Atlantis alive that he can’t bring himself to question it-neither the truth of the statement, nor the Korellians motives for telling him. They don’t have to tell him, he thinks. They don’t have to tell him, except Jonah does. When Rodney begs to know what had happened, Jonah bends the rules to tell him.
To make him feel better, Jonah had said, so he could rest-just like he would for any patient. Rodney knows better.
Jonah didn’t have to tell him, but he did.
And when Rodney asks (begs, really; it’s not dignified, and it’s certainly not smart to clue his captors in to such an exploitable weakness, but he’s desperate and really, haven’t these people ever heard of claustrophobes?) for a bigger cell, or maybe even just one with windows, Jonah tells him they’d be willing to move him to the infirmary-would have moved him days ago, in fact, if they could only have his word that he won’t try to escape; and Rodney says yes, yes, fine, whatever it takes, as long as there are windows. He doesn’t have to worry about escaping, anyway, because Sheppard is fine, his team is fine and they’ll be back to break him out any day now.
He even says the last part out loud; says it over and over again like a mantra, tells himself as often as he can. He doesn’t need to worry about escaping. Sheppard’s out there. They’re coming for him. They’d never leave him behind.
He tells Jonah, too, when he comes.
Jonah only looks at him, features drawn in sympathy, and changes the bandages in silence.
Rodney looks away; he can’t bear to face the pity in the other man’s eyes, can’t bear to think about what put it there because that would mean thinking about the one thing he’s been deliberately avoiding since he got there, the thing they’ve told him from the beginning, even more dangerous than his slowly diminishing supply of air.
They don’t want you back.
It’s psychological terrorism; they’re watching, waiting for him to break. Maybe he already has.
He can’t afford to trust these people; Rodney knows that. He can’t believe a word they say.
It’s not his fault, Rodney thinks, but he does.
He can’t afford not to.
*
Rodney’s had hours to go over every moment in his mind, every waking moment of every day he spent in the city he’d thought was his home.
He’s relived every crisis, every word they’d ever said to him (“I had a feeling,” said Elizabeth as the personal shield fell away from his chest. She’d thought he was a coward.), every failure (The Arcturus project on Doranda. “That may take a while,” Sheppard had said, his face stony and unforgiving.), every embarrassment (“I thought you were very brave,” said Teyla, but she was smirking. She probably laughed at him later. The sneer on Ronon’s face before he cut the snare and sent Rodney tumbling none-too-gently to the ground. Ford: “I know what you’re like with weapons.” Lorne. Caldwell. Cadman: “I guarantee it was more traumatic for me.” Griffin. Zelenka.)
He’s been dissecting every touch, every sideways glance, and every offhand comment looking for the clue that will tell him why they’ve done it. He’s re-examined every detail, every overture of friendship, and every conspiratorial smile.
The answers are the same every time. They’ve left him behind.
It takes weeks of introspection and forced inactivity while his traitorous mind spins, turning every moment over, twisting every memory to try and make it fit until, suddenly, it does. Long-forgotten hurts tumble together, ill-timed entrances and half-remembered snatches of conversation fall into place and Rodney understands. Everything makes sense.
He learns to hate them, over time, learns to loathe the very memory of them, learns to doubt every whispered not-promise Sheppard ever made against his skin.
Rodney’s spent all of his adult life moving from place to place; first for university, then back and forth between whatever military installations the United States government deemed necessary. He’s lived in plenty of different places, but he hasn’t been home since he was a kid-and it was home, no matter how dysfunctional it had been, or how happy he’d been to escape. Atlantis was everywhere he’d ever wanted to belong, only now Rodney finds that the home he thought he’d built is crumbling down around him.
Rodney’s not a stupid man. It takes him weeks of contemplation amidst the peaceful greens and blues of the Korellian infirmary, but he knows when to stop fighting the facts. Weeks of despair, of doubt, of broken dreams, and he finally gets it.
They’ve left him behind.
It’s a difficult truth that gets easier with time.
*
There’s plenty of work to be done once he’s healed. At first it’s hectic, frenzied like Atlantis in the weeks before the Wraith siege. The disgracefully low level of technology the Korellians possess keeps Rodney busy from dawn to dusk, working on too little sleep and too much of their detestable stimulant tea. Eventually, though, the hard knot of hurt in his chest begins to loosen. Things settle into a routine: he spends his days in the lab deciphering ten-thousand-year-old Ancient technology, loudly denouncing the tea and extolling the many virtues of coffee.
His nights are full of Jonah.
Jonah has a nice smile, a kind face with wide blue eyes framed by honey-blond hair; more open and honest than John’s ever was, Rodney thinks, and feels an immediate stab of guilt. John Sheppard was charming, all easy inscrutable smile and dark, insincere eyes. It feels almost blasphemous to think of Sheppard next to Jonah, as if Sheppard’s thoughtless duplicity might mar Jonah’s guileless honesty just by association.
Jonah has a nice smile, Rodney thinks. It’s strange at first, fitting in, but the Korellians are a friendly, gracious people, and they accept him into their ranks easily, grateful for the knowledge and the skill that he offers.
They’re good to him-Jonah’s good to him-in ways no one else ever has been.
When he thinks of the Lantians now, the tightness in his chest isn’t the hollow ache of betrayal. It’s hatred, a white-hot sun of fury that threatens to consume him. He feels like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of his previous life, all his impurities burned away.
*
2. Dislocation/Reconstruction (House of Reeds)
*
There had been a revolution in progress when they arrived, Rodney learns. He’d been caught in the crossfire, captured and then liberated days later when the new government came to power.
“I thought you said they didn’t want me escaping,” Rodney says. He looks up from where he’s seated at the desk and pushes his work aside, brows creasing in thought. “I had to promise not to try and escape.”
“You were very feverish.” Jonah brushes gentle fingers through Rodney’s hair. His voice is soothing, patronizing, and it should bother Rodney but it doesn’t. “You weren’t a prisoner. We just didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Rodney frowns. “But-”
“But nothing,” Jonah interrupts patiently. “The guards were there for your protection. You know that. Anyone from the old government might’ve tried to hurt you.”
That could be true. It wasn’t as if Rodney had actually tried to escape. If he had, they might have let him pass.
“Now, if we’re done with that,” Jonah says firmly, clearly indicating that they are, “I have a surprise for you.” He grins, rocking back on his heels in a way Rodney recognizes as his own.
Rodney grins back, conversation forgotten in favor of the way he wants to kiss the corners of Jonah’s shy, sweet smile. “Really?”
Jonah’s smile widens into something impish, and with a flourish he produces a small plastic bag Rodney never expected to see again.
“Coffee?” He says dumbly, and Jonah’s expression segues into uncertainty.
“You used to talk about it all the time, and I know you don’t like the tea.” Jonah shifts, disappointment clear in the uncomfortable line of his body. “So with the new trade agreement, I thought … I’m sorry. I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Rodney’s spent the last eight months wishing wistfully for coffee; only now, confronted with the incontrovertible proof of his betrayal, what hope he’s clung to, whatever illusions he’s had that they were ever coming back for him are gone, washed away by the sight of a one-pound bag held tightly in his lover’s fist and the realization that they were willing to trade with the people who took him.
Jonah’s still looking at him, nervous and unsure, teeth worrying at his lower lip the way he does sometimes when he doesn’t know how Rodney’s going to react. The package hangs there between them, familiar magenta tones clashing with the soft blue of the lab; it’s a pointed reminder of the Lantian treaty, the way Atlantis and her people abandoned him here, and Rodney’s never wanted anything less.
But Rodney thinks, He brought me Starbucks, and it makes his mouth dry and his chest ache with affection.
“Thank you,” Rodney says hoarsely, and takes the package, tucking it away in a drawer he knows he’ll never open. Pulling Jonah close, he presses his lips to the soft skin beneath the other man’s ear and closes his eyes. “But I think I’d prefer the tea.”
Jonah turns his head then, and kisses him slowly, languorously. “There’s tea at home, you know.”
“Oh?” Something flutters unexpectedly in Rodney’s stomach. “Well. I’m about done here. I should be there in a few hours.”
“You work too hard,” Jonah laughs. “Take a day off, you deserve one. C’mon.” He tugs Rodney towards the door and Rodney lets him.
They’re not coming for him.
It doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t need them anymore.
He’s home.
*
Weir is coming, Jonah tells him one night. Prime Minister Lucien wants to re-negotiate the treaty to include an exchange of technologies; he’s hoping that with the advances they’ve made since Rodney’s arrival, he’ll be able to persuade them into a treaty as equals.
She’s bringing a delegation, just like last time, and-just like last time-he’s hoping Rodney might take the opportunity to study the sensor arrays in the North Country. They’ve been getting unusual readings again, and Rodney’s the best qualified to work on them.
Plus, Rodney thinks uncharitably, it would keep him nicely occupied and well away from the capital city for the duration of the visit. He regrets it almost immediately; Rodney really is the best qualified for the job, and Lucien’s merely concerned about the effect the Lantians’ presence might have on one of his best scientists.
Rodney can’t exactly blame him. There’s a bag of coffee that’s been in his desk drawer for four months, and he still can’t bring himself to look at it long enough to throw it out. Sometimes just knowing it’s there is too much, and he has to find another lab to work in.
“Rodney?” Jonah says. He rolls over, tangling himself in the sheets. “Are you listening to me?”
“What? Oh yes, yes, of course. I was just … thinking.”
Propping himself up on an elbow, Jonah places a hand on Rodney’s bare chest. “You’re losing weight again,” he observes, and strokes Rodney’s stomach through the sheet. “Soon you’ll just be skin and bones. What were you thinking about?”
“Nothing.” Rodney catches Jonah’s hand in his own and studies it, lacing their fingers together. He doesn’t look at Jonah. “Atlantis.” Just thinking it makes his stomach hurt; saying it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, makes his gut churn. He thinks he might be sick.
It’s completely irrational, jumping at shadows like this, losing sleep and skipping meals. His old co-workers on Atlantis probably wouldn’t even recognize this new Rodney.
“See?” Jonah huffs out a breath and wiggles closer, running a thumb over Rodney’s knuckles. “You’re upset. Lucien’s right-you should go to the North Country while they’re here. You shouldn’t have to see them again after what they did to you.”
Rodney frowns at their joined hands. Jonah’s right, but-but he wonders how many heads of state take such a personal interest in the private affairs of their scientists. Rodney knows Lucien’s protecting a valuable asset and Jonah’s just worried, but he feels like he’s being sheltered, smothered. Hidden away.
It’s uncomfortably like being managed.
“I was thinking I could stay,” he says slowly, hyperaware of the way his heart thumps faster at the very thought. The room seems smaller, suddenly, in the wake of his announcement; his vision grays a little at the edges. He fidgets with Jonah’s fingers, and finds himself hoping kind of desperately that Jonah will say no, no way, not at all. “The arrays are all networked now, and I could do all the work on them from my lab. It’s probably nothing anyway, and I'd get more done on the hydrodynamics project if I didn't have to go all the way out there.”
Jonah doesn’t say anything but he shifts almost unnoticeably, putting just the tiniest fraction of space between them, and when Rodney looks up, Jonah’s face is guarded and carefully neutral.
“You want to stay,” Jonah says flatly. Rodney’s never seen him look like this, hard-edged and angular; he almost doesn’t recognize his lover in this stranger lying next to him.
Rodney swallows and drops his eyes. “No, I-” His face feels hot, and his hand clammy where it touches Jonah’s. “I don’t, not really. Just, I think I’m finally getting somewhere on that project, and I don’t want to waste any time I could spend on it. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Jonah’s voice has lost its distance, and just like that his entire demeanor changes; he leans closer, pressing their bodies back together, and Rodney exhales in relief.
“Yes, that’s all. You know me-work, work, work.” Rodney chuckles weakly and wiggles his fingers nervously. He can’t begin to articulate what it is that scares him at moments like this; he’s not even sure if he really knows, and it feels ridiculously stupid to be so frightened over nothing.
“Well, I’m sure that’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Lucien.” Jonah and Lucien have known each other since they were children-they’re old friends. “We can probably move you into a different building for the day. The compound you work in is the most secure facility we have available, so they’ll be conducting most of the negotiations there.”
Rodney nods. That makes perfect sense, and lately he’s been more comfortable outside of his own lab anyway.
“It was awful what they did to you,” Jonah settles himself so he’s stretched out next to Rodney, head resting on his shoulder. He makes a face. “They’re disgusting people, and I hate having to deal with them.”
“That’s okay,” Rodney finds himself saying. “We could really use the help.”
Rodney doesn’t sleep much that night; he lies awake and tries not to think of tomorrow, uneasy thoughts punctuated by the soft rise and fall of Jonah’s breathing.
*
3. Relocation/Deconstruction (House of Stone)
*
It eats at Rodney all the next day, how easy it would be to get himself into the compound. His regular lab is there; it’s entirely plausible that he’d have forgotten something crucial.
It’s been a year since they left him here, but it’s not enough to know they did. He has to know why.
Rodney checks his watch and makes the decision, heart pounding. It’s mid-afternoon, the tail end of the lunch break, everybody at loose ends waiting to resume negotiations. If nothing else, Sheppard’s probably wandering around the restricted areas, trying and failing miserably to look nonchalant.
Sheppard’s one of the worst spies ever. Second only to Rodney himself.
“Hey Gwyn,” he says, as casually as possible. “I, ah, left my card at home today-figured I wouldn’t need it since we’re working outside the compound today, but I think I left a data disk in my lab, and I’m not going to get anywhere without it. Could I borrow yours? I could probably run home and grab mine, but it’d take forever.”
It’s got to be the flimsiest excuse in the world, but Gwyn just blinks at him and hands him her security card while he makes the appropriate displays of apology and embarrassment; the next thing he knows, he’s clutching the (blank) data disk in his lab, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he’s about to do.
He used Gwyn’s card to get in. Lucien and Jonah don’t know he’s in the building. Nobody does, except for the guards he passed in the hallway, and chances are they don’t even know he’s not supposed to be there. Rodney feels like a criminal.
He’s not supposed to be there. Rodney promised Jonah this morning that he wouldn’t come, wouldn’t put himself through this. He can imagine what Jonah would say if he found him here, supposedly crucial data disk in hand, two security cards-his and Gwyn’s-and a broken promise. Rodney flushes. The guilt is a palpable thing; he’s burning with it, it’ll be incredible if the guards don’t see it on him at fifty paces.
He’s broken faith enough with Jonah and everyone else, the people who’ve treated him so kindly and taken him in over the last year. He can’t do this. He’ll just go back right now and tell Gwyn he made a mistake. He’ll tell Jonah tonight before someone else does, and next time, he’ll just go study at one of the out of town labs when the Lantians come. It’ll be okay; Rodney will apologize, and Jonah will forgive him.
Rodney closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He shouldn’t have come here. He doesn’t need to know. He’s not going to ruin everything with his ridiculous ideas of closure.
Right.
He’s standing in his lab waiting for the silence to sink in and his hands to stop trembling when a lean form bearing an utterly familiar mop of dark hair slinks by-it’s Sheppard, just where Rodney knew he'd be, casually assessing the other side’s resources and looking for all the world as if he’d gotten lost on the way to the bathroom and only accidentally wandered into the restricted area.
Sheppard’s expression is almost comically surprised; mouth slack, eyes wide and brows raised. As if he hadn’t expected to find him there.
For the first time in over twelve months, Rodney looks at John Sheppard. His body tenses, blood rushing, heart pounding in his ears. His chest is so tight he can hardly breathe.
He wants to rip the man apart with his bare hands. He’s never been so angry in his entire life.
“Rodney,” Sheppard says, like he can’t quite believe it, and his voice is intimate like he still thinks he knows Rodney, like he thinks Rodney still cares about any one of them at all.
The data disk falls, forgotten, to the floor and Rodney clenches his hands into tight, furious fists. “You didn’t come back for me.”
“What? God, Rodney, I can’t- You’re-” Sheppard strides forward like a man possessed, eyes glittering with-something. Something Rodney can’t yet place and isn’t sure he wants to.
Sheppard grabs his arm and Rodney yanks it away savagely. “Don’t touch me.” Sheppard pulls back, perplexed and angry, as if he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it, and that’s just the last straw.
“You left!” Rodney shouts, and he’s well aware that his voice is segueing into hysterical, but he doesn’t care. He’s waited a year to have his say, they just left him there without a word, without so much as goodbye, and this might be the last chance he ever has. “You left me here, all of you, and you never came back for me. You never came back, and you never said why, and did you really expect me to act as if nothing was wrong?”
“Rodney,” Sheppard flounders. “I-”
“No!” Sheppard reaches for him again and Rodney recoils. “No! I don’t want to hear it,” he says, voice cracking, caught somewhere between desperation and fevered, helpless rage. He hasn’t had reason to question his convictions in twelve long months, and he’s not willing to let Sheppard push him into it now. “I don’t want to know what you have to say. I don’t want anything to do with you. Just go back to your damn treaty and stay the hell out of my life.”
“No,” Sheppard says. His voice is low, dangerous, and Rodney’s courage falters for a moment in the face of the conviction he hears in the other man’s voice. “No, Rodney, I will not go back without you. Not this time."
Rodney’s sputtering furiously, but Sheppard’s not listening; he’s pulled his sidearm out, turned partway towards the door and speaking urgently into the radio. “McKay’s alive. Lorne, get Elizabeth and the rest back to the gate as soon as possible. Ronon, we’re in a lab in the east wing-about 50 feet past the bathrooms, turn left and it’s the fourth on the right. Get yourself down here now. Shoot anyone who gets in your way.” He turns back, and Rodney flinches at the expression on his face.
Sheppard’s all controlled fury. His eyes are wild and his every movement tight and purposeful, betraying a barely concealed rage. Rodney takes a startled step back, but recovers. Those are his people that savage will be shooting at.
“Call him off,” he demands. “I’m not leaving, and you’ll never make it out of this building without me. It’s too well guarded. They’ll kill all of you.”
“Right,” Sheppard says, and thumbs his radio. “On second thought-Lorne, why don’t you take the good Minister hostage on your way out? I’d really hate to get shot rescuing a dead man.”
“What? No, no, no, no-no rescuing. I am not going with you! I won't-”
“Yes, Rodney, you will. And you are. Because I’m not leaving without you.” Sheppard clenches his jaw, abruptly cutting himself off. “Look,” he continues, and his voice is strained, deceptively calm. “I don’t know what they told you-“
“They told me the truth!” Rodney says shrilly. “They told me what happened! They-”
“They told us you were dead!” Sheppard snarls. He spits the words out like he’s tasted something foul.
“That’s a lie.” Rodney’s fingernails bite painfully into his palms, fists clenched tightly against the overwhelming urge to hit Sheppard; again and again, until he shuts his stupid mouth and stops telling his stupid lies. He has no business coming back after all this time and saying these things about Jonah, Lucien and Gwyn, Alfric and Raina and Lane. He has no right at all to try and tear Rodney’s life apart again. “A complete and utter fabrication.” Rodney steps forward into Sheppard’s personal space and he’s shaking with the effort it takes not to bring his fist right up into Sheppard’s face.
“Rodney.” Sheppard’s eyes dart sideways, then back. His grip tightens on the 9mm, arm hanging loosely at his side.
“You’re lying. What’s wrong with you? You have no right at all to come here and say that!”
“Rodney.” Sheppard’s got his command voice on; Rodney doesn’t care.
“Shut up,” he says viciously. “Just fucking save it. You mean less than nothing to me. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. You left me. You left me behind.”
Sheppard flinches at that, and Rodney wants to smile. He wants to hurt Sheppard, make him suffer just like Rodney has. He wants to, but there’s a brief surge of satisfaction followed by the same aching hollowness he’s carried around for a year; and it is grossly unfair to realize that it doesn’t make him feel any better-nothing will.
“McKay,” Ronon says behind him, and Rodney whirls around and finds himself nearly eye-to-eye with Ronon’s pistol, choking on his own breath as the gun cocks with its distinctive electrical whine. “Good to see you, too.”
*
Rodney doesn’t say anything as they march him through the gate at gunpoint. He seethes in silence at the sight of the city that betrayed him; doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t say a word to his captors. He’s a prisoner.
They’ll twist every word that comes out of his mouth, so he keeps it stubbornly shut all the way down to the infirmary, through the physical, jaw clenched against the indignity while they stand in a shocked huddle, discussing him in low, worried tones.
Rodney grits his teeth and pretends he doesn’t feel their eyes on him. He keeps his eyes locked on the same section of infirmary wall he’s been watching for the last fifteen minutes. He’s not going to get sucked in.
“He didn’t mean it,” Ronon says, uncharacteristically gentle. He’s towering over Sheppard with an expression of concern. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney sees him shrug. “I’ve seen this before. It happened sometimes on Sateda. People get kidnapped. They forget what’s real.”
“We call it Stockholm syndrome,” Weir says wearily. Rodney has to remind himself he doesn’t care. “It’s actually very common to find it in varying degrees in hostage situations.”
“Stockholm?” Rodney doesn’t have to look to know that Ronon’s expression is a mix of bafflement and bewildered amusement.
“Yeah, Stockholm.” It’s the first Sheppard’s said since they came back through the gate. “It’s a city in Sweden, which is a country on Earth.”
“I thought McKay was from Canada,” Ronon says after a moment, and Sheppard makes a choked sound that might be laughter.
Beckett’s been quiet the whole time, conducting a cursory physical inspection of his unwilling patient. “I hate you all,” Rodney tells him, just to remind them it’s true.
“Aye, lad,” Beckett says sadly, and Rodney almost meets his eyes for one startled second. Beckett’s face is regretful, apologetic. “I’ll bet you do.”
Rodney looks away again.
*
Rodney has a lot of time to think; his room is empty except for the bare essentials, so there’s not much else to do. There’s a lamp on the nightstand next to the bed, two chairs, and a desk that has another lamp and some scientific journals stacked carefully on it.
He hasn’t touched those yet, but he’s sure it’s only a matter of time until he breaks.
Teyla brought them; they couldn’t allow him a laptop, she’d explained apologetically, because Rodney had proven himself more than capable of hacking into the city’s crucial systems on more than one occasion.
It rankles, but Rodney can’t fault their reasoning. Given half a chance, he probably could find a way to make it network with the city. They can’t trust him not to bypass any of the security protocols they have in place. There are marines on his door for that very reason: to make sure he doesn’t try for manual access.
Heightmeyer visits, but Rodney ignores her. They sit in silence for an hour while Kate looks patient and sympathetic, and Rodney looks out the window and thinks about how much he hates the ocean. When she’s gone he paces the room like a caged animal and thinks about the view from his study on Korelin and how he’d give anything at all to be back there drinking tea with Jonah and laughing at the old women’s dire predictions for the winter instead of here in Atlantis, a prisoner watching his life fall apart all over again.
*
Rodney’s still not speaking when Ronon brings him coffee about a week later. It’s not easy-there isn’t anything to do but think and pace-and he gives in and reads the journals just to keep from thinking about what he’s been told. It’s quiet and peaceful, and almost like he’s using their gifts against them.
Ronon lets himself in, pulls up a chair and plants the carafe on the nightstand next to a mug that obviously came from the mess. It's good quality coffee, too, the kind that Rodney might once have been driven to embarrassing extremes to get his hands on.
The aroma fills the room, fragrant and rich, and it makes Rodney sick. His stomach flips lazily and Rodney swallows convulsively as the words on the page in front him blur; his grip on the journal tightens, fingers clenching against the nausea.
“You like it,” Ronon explains, and Rodney doesn’t look at him.
Rodney doesn’t say anything, but he curls his lip in revulsion and pointedly ignores the gift.
Ronon’s unfazed. He shrugs and leans back in the chair, legs spread. “You didn’t think that before.”
It almost isn’t worth hating Ronon Dex, Rodney thinks; everything seems to slide right off of him. For another hour, he seems perfectly content to just sit there in uncomfortable silence while Rodney tries to read, unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional shuffle of feet as he shifts his weight; until Rodney can’t take it anymore and finally speaks.
“What do you want?” Rodney snaps. “I know I’m going out on a limb here, but in spite of the regrettable shortage of ocean-front property in Atlantis, I am sure that there is at least one other window in this city with such a lovely view of the water. So is there a reason you’re here, or have you decided that simply holding me hostage isn’t enough and you’d rather try and drive me slowly insane?”
“Would you like me to leave?” Ronon turns and asks with exaggerated care.
“Yes! Yes, yes, please, by all means-if you’re not going send me home, then kindly leave me alone.” And to Rodney’s surprise, Ronon does.
“Okay.” With little more than a raised eyebrow and a nod, Ronon replaces the chair at the desk and leaves.
Rodney stares at the door in shock until it opens again to admit one of the marines, a fresh-faced young man who wants to know whether he should have some food sent in, or if Rodney’s planning on eating in the mess. Rodney’s dumbfounded enough by the question that he forgets himself and answers before it occurs to him to be suspicious.
He paces the room again-counting his steps, measuring.
He’s a prisoner. They’re only doing this to mess with his head. They’re trying to weaken his resolve. It won’t work.
The next time Heightmeyer comes, Rodney asks her to leave, just to see if she will. He knows she won’t. But she does.
She purses her lips thoughtfully and studies him for a moment, then she gathers her things and goes. It’s unsettling.
Rodney paces the room some more and calculates the combined volume of air held by the main room and the bathroom. The room they have him in isn’t small enough to be claustrophobic, but it still makes him nervous.
And he can open the door anytime he wants.
*
Sheppard doesn’t come until the second week; and when he does, he brings video equipment with him.
There’s a brief scuffle at the door as the marines try to stop him, but Sheppard orders them aside. It’s the same kind of setup they’d used to show Ronan what was left of his homeworld, and Rodney’s chest goes still and tight with panic at the thought of whatever it is Sheppard wants to show him.
“Get out,” Rodney says. Here it comes, he thinks and stands, crossing his arms to hide the way his hands are shaking. This must be what they’ve been building to the whole time. “I don’t want to see you.”
“No.” Sheppard’s face is closed, impassive; mouth set in a stubborn line. “I’m not leaving until you’ve seen this.” He brandishes a DVD, then turns away to fiddle with the equipment. “This is the MALP transmission we received from P3Y-205, two days after you were taken. We saved it.” Sheppard presses a button decisively and steps back to stand next to the whole setup, arms crossed and facing Rodney. “I’m glad we did.”
The screen flares to life, and the bottom drops out of Rodney’s world. Lucien is there, looking sorrowful and worn. He’s holding a backpack and a United States military-issue tactical vest that’s covered in blood and torn through on the right side.
“My sincerest apologies, Dr. Weir,” Lucien tells the camera. “There was an explosion in one of the old government buildings. It killed a great many of my own people as well, but we were able to retrieve these from one of the wings that had been left partially intact …”
He remembers Jonah’s face, then, as they’d marched him through the building. Lucien had been white with fear, but Jonah-Jonah hadn’t been angry, but grief-stricken, and he’d called out to Rodney that he was sorry, that he’d had no choice. Rodney remembers the way Jonah’s voice had cracked, the way his face had twisted in desperate apology as he’d begged Rodney to forgive him, and he knows.
Rodney knows the truth, and it’s agony.
His vision fades out and his knees feel weak. Everything sounds strange, like the rest of the world is light-years away except for the deafening whoosh of his heart, and it’s like he’s been drowning this whole time and he’s finally broken the surface to find that all the warmth he’d thought he’d hoarded was a lie, and truth is he’s been hypothermic and only half-alive all this time.
It’s nothing at all like suffocating. Rodney can’t make his lungs work and he can’t quite catch his breath, but it’s good, like he’s learning to breathe for the first time after 12 months and 14 days of slow asphyxiation.
Rodney gasps and it’s like coming back from the dead for real. He falls to his knees, and then Sheppard-no, John-John is there and he’s got his arms around Rodney and Rodney was wrong. He’s shuddering, shaking so hard he thinks he might be flying apart, and he was right, he’d been betrayed, but he was wrong-it wasn’t Atlantis and it wasn’t John, thank God, and it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.
He’s finally home.