Basura (pt 2) by Kat Reitz & tzigane [Dark Side challenge]

[tzi]

Title: Basura (cont.)
Authors: tzi & zaganthi
Pairing: Kolya/McKay, Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17, AU
Summary: Rodney was difficult, brilliant, and completely expendable to the SGC if he couldn't pull this off. She'd known it before they ever left, known because of the way they had said yes and no to her requests for personnel, and even if the expedition had brilliance, it didn't have stability.
Spoilers: Up through "The Storm/The Eye", at least. Traders. Sort of.
Warnings: Rape, torture, general madness.
Length: 13,810 words.



"Ow. Ow, no, Carson!" He couldn't help whining, couldn't, because it hurt, it hurt a lot, and Rodney wanted to cry, he really did, because it wasn't, he didn't like it, and just because Carson wanted all of the morphine for himself was no reason not to let Rodney have it.

He didn't want to hurt anymore. He didn't want to be leaning up against the wall with a cold thing up his ass and Carson telling him he'd fix it, he'd fix it, without fixing it, without stopping it, because nothing was getting better. His arm ached, and the bandage felt like it was full, and he wanted to hide. Rodney wanted to close his eyes and tuck himself away and pretend that there was nothing else in the room, nothing else at all.

There was, though. There were sounds, and noises, and begging, begging like he had made, and John's voice was there, hard and angry, and mean. Very mean. He wanted to yell for it to stop because mean-John scared him, made him want to cry. Rodney didn't like being scared, and he was just, it just, it all hurt so bad, and....

"There we go, Rodney. There we go. Just a little... there you go. You're worn at the edges, a tear here and there, but nothing that'll require stitching. I've got some antibiotic ointment on, and I'll give you something for the pain. Lieutenant, how's Elizabeth?"

"Uh, maybe you could hurry it up, Doc? Her breathing is so so."

Rodney closed his eyes, and leaned into the wall. Carson was pulling what, whatever it was out of him, and he should stay standing, Maybe he could have that blanket if he did, or he could pull his clothes back on? So he pressed his cheek against the wall, and squeezed his eyes tight closed.

"Right, then. Rodney? There we go, there's a good lad. Come and lie down here, let me change your bandage and... ah, there we go. I've got some strips that'll close that up, right and tight, and then we'll make time for stitching you up later. The bleeding's mostly stopped. It'll be all right if I take care of Elizabeth, won't it?"

Oh, but there was a scream, and screaming was bad, so bad, oh so bad, and Rodney just didn't know.

"I, I want John? He said, he said he..." He said he'd keep Rodney warm, he said he'd help, and Rodney wanted that, had felt his stomach flip-flop the good way. Rodney couldn't have the other things he wanted. He couldn't go to his room, he wasn't allowed, the hallways were too dangerous, bright and alive and that was why they were still bright and alive, because the hallways were, but he wanted to shower. He wanted to shower and he wanted to crawl in bed and sleep and sleep until he wasn't thinking about it anymore, until he didn't think about the man's face, the man's smile, the sound of the knife, the way it was sex-but-not.

Sex-but-bad.

"Aye, aye. I know, Rodney." Carson was cleaning his arm, doing something with strips of cloth or tape or something that should have made things better, but hurt almost as much as the knife. Rodney couldn't stop the sounds coming out of his mouth, but the screaming was tapering off, and then John was there, and he held up an arm, and it was okay. Okay. It was okay, and going to be better because, because, because John.

John was there under his fingertips, grinning a little. He liked that smile, focused on it because John was beautiful. John was movie-star pretty, but he was real and he had flaws and a sense of humor, and it had been amazing to watch him from the start, and he'd saved Rodney again. "Can we go, can I rest? I want to rest."

"Sure thing, buddy. Carson's just gonna put on a new bandage and go take care of Elizabeth now 'cause she's kind of important." Not as important as Rodney, though, no, no. "Teyla's gonna help him, and you and me? We're gonna come curl up in these blankets, okay?" Okay. Okay, okay, because John was pretty and it wouldn't ever ever be sex-but-not or sex-but-bad and hurt, not if it was John. He hadn't, didn't, they hadn't, but Rodney wasn't stupid.

Rodney knew it was there and he knew, wanted, but he was shaking and cold and he hurt. Kolya had hurt him, and he'd tried not to tell, but he had, he'd had to and Kolya still hadn't stopped, he'd fucked Rodney, and Rodney hadn't wanted it, and he'd, and he'd...

"There you go. It might be best if you got him off to the side there, Major."

"Got it." Got what, Rodney didn't know, but John had him bundled up, and there were blankets, and something kind of like a pillow. John laid him down, and curled up behind him, an arm over his waist, and if he smelled like blood, Rodney could ignore it. He really could.

He could lie like that and close his eyes, and just breathe. In and out and in again and out again. John's fingers laid over where his stomach was, if it weren't for the blankets, pressed the plasticy-warm fabric against the bare skin that was under the blankets. Everything felt sore, but Rodney tried not to whine. That time. He could feel his knees press against themselves, too, and when he curled his feet back, he found John's calves.

"There we go." John's mouth was close, near his ear, a hot wash of breath that smelled like old coffee and cinnamon disks. "Close your eyes, Rodney. I'll wake you up if you need to fix anything." And that was, that was good. That meant he didn't have to think about the dead people or, or anything. Or anything at all.

He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep, but he drifted, floated, aware that John was still there and he was tucked up against him, protected and safe enough to just lie there. There was a safety to be found in equations, old thoughts that he hadn't worn through, about power distribution, because he knew that his sleep would be sick, restless and not rest. But power distribution, and mourning the shame it was that they hadn't had a way to store the electricity, that was safe.

That felt good.

Rodney would take that over sad and shame and sex-but-not any day.

"Is blood on console. Is blood on console, and I? I did not get to participate. Not," Radek said thoughtfully, "that I am so fond of bleeding. However, most interesting to consider. Yes?"

"Not really. You missed a lot of dead Genii," John drawled, eyeing the blood that had dried into the recessed symbols of the console's controls. "Can you fix it?"

"Yes, yes, most likely. Most likely, so long as the blood has not gotten into components or filaments. Is difficult, especially with only one crystal which dials to Earth."

Not that they were going back, ever, even if they found a ZPM, John figured. Earth was a distant dream, and since they were all throw-aways, it was a better idea to stay where they were. Declare themselves independent, maybe, if they could talk Elizabeth into it. Something. Eventually. Once they had enough time without contact to Earth, most of them would be chomping at the bit to go native except Rodney, probably. Rodney had mentioned once that he had a twin brother, and even if his twin was probably as crazy as Rodney was, family was family.

Except, when it wasn't. "Rodney can repair any broken filaments, when he's had some time to himself. The plan worked great, Doctor Zelenka. It went off without a hitch." Barring the part where it was Rodney's blood all in there, and the look Radek gave him said as much.

"Yes, yes. Is without a hitch when there is blood in DHD. I believe you, Major," he lied, sarcasm welling thick between them.

John shifted, shrugged. "The saving the city part you planned did, anyway. The rest is all a matter of technicalities." Like the fact that Rodney was resting now, allowed back to his room. It probably hadn't been smart to leave him, but Carson had stitched him up after he'd put Elizabeth together, and he was sedated. John had to do other things, first. He had to talk with Radek, and then he'd stick his head in and make sure Rodney had a pulse. He'd slept, or something, through the storm, curled up on himself, ass pressed back against John's crotch, spine against his chest, legs pulled up.

It had been damn hard not to do things that would send Rodney screaming at the moment. McKay had a great ass.

"Well. If blood is technicalities, as you will, Major." Radek shrugged, going back to work. The other scientists were still coming in through the Stargate periodically, and John was planning to severely kick the asses of their so-called host planet.

Naqahdah bombs sounded just about right. Radek would like those. Elizabeth would say no, so John would have to sit on his idea until they pulled something again, and then he wouldn't take no for an answer. They'd tried being nice and they'd tried to offer things to them to take the step towards being allies, but the Manarians just had to get greedy and pull that trick, and they'd pay for it.

They just didn't know it yet.

"Hey, I know you like things that go boom, yeah, Doc?" Might as well be prepared as not. Besides. It'd make Zelenka happy. “We might need a couple.”

"What? No, no, of course I do not enjoy bombs. That is a silly assumption. I much more prefer picking blood out of ten thousand year old equipment, would any man not?" He shot John a dirty look, and waved his pocketknife. "Is delight of my day to do this."

"Right." Yeah, John was going home to ice-cold water in the shower tonight. If he went home, anyway. He'd probably just go to Rodney's, use his shower. Curl up around him, because when he came out from under that sedation, it wasn't gonna be pretty. "So you'll maybe think about it for me."

"If you had mailbox, Major, it would have disappeared in a puff of smoke, I think. Yes, I will think about it for you." And then Radek leaned back down over the console. He'd probably spent the whole time there sequestered with the rest of their people, drinking and muttering about how the shield would come up, or if it would.

Then again, he might have jerked off thinking about A-bombs. John had no idea.

"You're a good guy, Doc. I'll let you get back to work." He'd go ahead and take himself off-duty, too, let Bates know he was heading up to quarters. The guy was bitter, but he was a vicious watchdog on security.

It was probably all he had left since Sumner had died. Well, there was the Chuck guy. John tried to not think too hard about his co-workers and who they were or weren't having sex with, because those were thoughts a guy didn't need in his head. He didn't need to know, didn't want to know.

"Yes, yes. Go, sleep. You..." Zelenka didn't look at him, but he gave a shrug of his shoulders. "You did good work. We have a city to come home to, despite Genii."

He'd killed so many of them. If he thought about it, he'd spring a boner about it in the middle of the control room, and it was bad enough that they'd seen Ford pushing the cart back through the Stargate, Kolya's cock stuffed in his mouth, eyes gouged out, fingers sliced off.

Nobody touched what belonged to John and got off as easy as being shot, dead or no.

He just wished he'd had more opportunity to hurt Kolya than that. Hurting Ladon hadn't been nearly as good.

He didn't say anything else to Radek, because that was probably the most small talk he'd had with the man in a month, and he started to look around the now-bustling control room for Bates. There were half a dozen scientists scattered on the 'gate room floor, a guy hurking up in a crazy pot they'd been using as a wastebasket, Beckett tending a scrape. Where the hell was...? Oh. Chuck. Of course.

Off in a corner talking to each other, at least until John sidled up behind them and cleared his throat. Bates's eyes snapped to John, and he stood up fractionally straighter, which shouldn't have been possible with that rod up his ass. Chuck spun around and declared in a breaking voice, "I was just leaving!" before he did.

Half the fun of the Canadians was scaring them shitless.

"I'm going off duty," John murmured to Bates. "It's been a hell of a day. Make sure Ford goes off after me. You've got Atlantis, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir." He even brought his heels together a little sharply, and that just never stopped being funny. It still amazed him that he was the leader, that they all listened to him and he hadn't fucked it up yet. They were all still alive. Bates didn't wait for a 'dismissed', but he probably just assumed John was going to waltz off, which was right.

John wondered if he would have given Sumner that same sharp answer and heel click every time the Colonel nailed his ass over the nearest flat surface.

It didn't matter. Not really, not when John was tired and still bloody, in need of a shower and he still had to check on Rodney. That would take forever, so he might as well shower and stay there, unless McKay had managed to drag himself out of sedation and stumble to Teyla's rooms.

That didn't seem likely, given the size of the injection Carson had given him. Rodney had what Carson called 'interesting' metabolism, though. Sometimes little things knocked him right out, and sometimes he shook things off.

John would work it out when he got there, possibly after he showered.

Probably after he showered, because he was seriously stinking in ways that should never, ever be imagined. He had an aunt once who used to say that by the time a person could smell himself, he'd probably been stinking for three days. It was that kind of stench, settled into his skin with cold, congealed blood and cordite, maybe the scent of Rodney's screams worked into the mix for good measure. He hadn't used to think that screams had a smell, but the noise still clung to his ears, even if Rodney had been loose and pliable by the time he'd been sent off to his room. John kept an eye open while he walked through the hallways, while he got on and then back off the transporter, just in case Rodney was slumped somewhere.

The halls were pretty much empty -- most of Atlantis was up and about, frantically shifting from lab to lab to see what the damage was, how much work they were going to have to do to get things up and running full speed again. The reattachment of the grounding stations had been a bitch, but they'd managed even in the rough seas. It was the kind of work John expected from the New Lanteans, even if Elizabeth was still clinging a little too much to Earth.

She'd get over it. She just would, because there was nothing else to do.

When John reached Rodney's door, he stopped outside of it, and then pressed on the crystals that would open it for him. If it was locked, there was nothing that resisted him, which John had gotten used to. The city warmed to him -- it had probably been too long since it had had a guy like him protecting it from people who didn't know what they were doing.

Rodney had a nice, tidy room. He had pictures hung on his walls and not too much space, but he'd said he liked the compactness of it, and the windows. Plus, there was a private bathroom, and he'd witnessed Rodney's sometimes fascination with water when they were off planet.

But he wasn't in the bathroom or staring out a window. He was wrapped up like a bug in his bedding, a roly-poly of sheets and soft woven Athosian blankets. Rodney's had been the first blankets replaced because he was Rodney, and his brain was going to save their asses day by day, and the military issue made him itchy and paranoid. Hell. It made half of Atlantis itchy and paranoid, but most of them could suck it up.

John started stripping once they were locked in, boots pulled off by the door, a steady line of filthy, bloody clothing dropped on the floor. He'd pick it up on his way back through, kick it out into the hallway so the stench wouldn't filter in too much.

He didn't think much of Rodney's situation, how he was settled into his bed, until he glanced over his shoulder at Rodney on his way to the bathroom. It was an afterthought, but he could see that Rodney's eyes were open, and that was just. Just creepy.

Clearing his throat, he paused, silhouetted in the doorway. He knew it, could see the way his shadow fell over the bed. "Hey, buddy."

Nothing. Rodney wasn't blinking, wasn't moving, and didn't look up at him. That was... not so hot. Either he was dead, and John was going to have to bash Carson's drug-addled head in, or he was way out in left field.

Giving up on showering for the moment, he turned and headed towards the bed, bare feet padding softly on the floor. "Rodney...?" Still no blinking, but when he leaned down, put his fingers gently on McKay's upper lip, he could feel the heat of his breath. "Huh."

He twisted his fingers, touching Rodney's lips, feeling that they were warm but dry to the touch. "Rodney isn't home right now." It was a soft, broken mumble, but it was Rodney's voice, and his lips moving under John's fingertips.

"Hm." John let his hand shift, curled his fingers against Rodney's neck, thumb rubbing over his jaw line. "You think if maybe there was a shower involved, Rodney might come back home again? 'Cause, you know. I kind of need one, and leaving you here by yourself, it doesn't sound so hot." If McKay offed himself, John wouldn't feel guilty. They couldn't afford that, though.

On the other hand, he'd get to fuck him without any guilt.

His eyes tracked finally, dragged themselves up to glance at John's face, but he still hadn't blinked. "What does it matter? Nothing, it doesn't, he hurt me. No one ever, said, said things that shouldn't be said, secrets."

"Hey, hey." John's knee was killing him. He'd banged the shit out of it getting into that duct over the 'gate room. "None of the secrets you told got out of Atlantis. They're all dead, and I sent them back."

"Didn't, didn't want to, to say anything, but he cut, and--never like that, before. No, no, just -- never, thought no...." Rodney's voice seized up, and his eyes cut to John again, and he blinked. There, that made it all immensely much less like talking to a corpse. "Wanted you to be proud."

"Hey. I'm proud of you, buddy." He'd have been prouder if Rodney had kept his trap shut, but torture was something that everybody gave in to eventually. "You did good. You kept 'em distracted so I could get in position. Take care of 'em."

"Why did he, why, he hurt me." Eyes on him again, and if he moved, he could probably get Rodney sitting upright and unwrap him from the Athosian blankets. Get him to shower, because he stunk pretty badly, too.

"Because he was a sick fucker. I took care of him for you, though. Huh? Didn't I take care of him for you, Rodney?" John tugged at him just a little. "C'mon. I'm gonna take care of you, now, get you clean, okay? I stink, and you smell pretty bad, too." Really bad, and if he got him up, got him to bathe, maybe he'd feel better when he lay back down.

It was all a matter of priorities, really. John liked living, and Rodney's brain was often between them and death. The fact that he had a bubble ass was secondary, really.

The thought that he was a twin only starred in every third jerk-off fantasy.

"Yeah. Wanted a shower, but Carson said." Carson said something, apparently, but Rodney just wasn't going to share. He let John pull at him, and started to move just enough to latch onto John with one arm once it was free, hugging him tightly. Naked skin to naked skin.

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna nix what Carson had to say." There was probably a trash bag or something they could wrap around his arm, and Rodney would feel better when the stench of the Genii was off of him. Hell, so would John. "C'mon." He wasn't going to get hard and scare Rodney. He wasn't going to get hard and scare Rodney. He wasn't going to get....

Well, shit.

Rodney tucked his face in against John's neck, all warm breath and trembling, moving mouth, and he needed to start thinking about Rodney the way Teyla did. A fucked up, too smart kid, which was what made it okay for him to crawl into her bed sometimes.

"It's okay," John promised him, even though it was a lie. Jesus. There was no way he could think of Rodney like that, not when what he really wanted was to be the one fucking him. "It's okay, buddy. Let's go get bathed, huh? Then we'll come back and change your sheets for you."

"Uh-huh." Rodney stayed tucked up against him even when John started to move, started to get him to stand.

The shower, John decided, wasn't going to be a long hot rest that he could jack off in. No, it was going to be hell.

John was still there.

He knew, hoped that John was still there because he could feel him. Sometimes he could see things but he didn't feel them, and touch was one of the most reliable senses. Sometimes he'd hear voices over the radio that weren't there, that weren't voices he recognized, and he'd sit there in the lab ignoring them, pretending that they weren't yelling at him, cussing at him. And sometimes he'd see his friends' faces morph, or things come out of the display screens, and he knew to ignore them.

Knew to take his cues from the people around him, because sometimes in Atlantis, that was real. Things really did happen in strange ways, energy monsters and Wraith and life-aligning insects, so he had to watch the others and he had to rely on touch, and John was still there. Still in bed with him.

It was a good thing that John was still in bed with him, because he had an arm over Rodney's body, and that was the only thing that had kept him from getting up and showering again. And probably again. And probably again.

He knew that if he asked, Carson would say it wasn't his fault. John already had, even though Rodney wasn't really sure John meant it. John said things because John thought his brain was between them and certain death, not necessarily because they were true. Both of them were better than Heightmeyer, though. She was supposed to be the resident psychologist, but Rodney didn't like her. She touched him, and she made him touch her, go down on her until his tongue was sore, the taste of her almost sour, and he didn't like it.

He skipped a lot of his appointments with her because he was busy elsewhere. Busy with anything at all, busy being off-world, just. Just busy.

He missed working in Colorado, sometimes. A lot. He missed Sam Carter and the General who'd been a Major and in stasis and dead and not dead and they did that. A lot. It had been pretty stressful, watching them come and go and come back again and go again and come back before they finally sent him off. He missed that life, and he missed sitting in the park after work, throwing handfuls of popcorn out for pigeons. Sometimes, his brother visited or he visited his brother, and that was always easy, enjoyable.

Nothing like that had ever happened at home. Rodney shifted, squirmed deeper into the blankets, deeper back against John. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Grant, and he wanted to see his cat, and he wanted to be anywhere, anywhere at all, except the Pegasus galaxy. His arm hurt, and his down-there hurt worse, and he could feel his mouth start to tremble.

"'sokay." John's voice was a mumble, but his arm tightened and pulled Rodney closer, even though Rodney hadn't been sure that was possible.

It wasn't okay. It wasn't. He could feel John breathing, he could feel his lungs fill up and then expel air, could feel cords of muscle pressing against spots of skin that hurt, against the holes Kolya had put in him, cuts that opened him up and let everything escape, and that was the problem. Everything in him had gotten out, and it was running free and--

And no, no, no. No. No, that wasn't it. That, that wasn't it, and he wasn't going to let things spin out of control like it had his first break, when he'd thought he'd been safe and Grant had been the one to end up crazy, poor crazy Grant, but six years later it had hit Rodney like a bullet through the skull and he'd tried to dial a null point with the 'gate when it was in Area 51 so he could go through it and become one with the universe, and if that sounded like a good idea again, which it did, then it wasn't okay.

Nothing was okay.

"Rodney?" John wasn't awake yet, but Rodney didn't know what to do. Hide? He wasn't sure he could, couldn't put things back together without help, but he didn't think John could either, and then John was leaning up over him, sleepy-eyed and beautiful and that was really wrong because John was scary, not beautiful, John was all gunpowder and blood, even if he smelled more like Rodney's soap and sleep sweat. "You need something?"

He needed a lot. He needed to go home and play checkers with Grant and sleep with his cat and hide, he needed to hide, because before, he had an intricate schedule of things that kept him from relapsing, a beautiful, perfectly structured world that buffered him and kept him safe even when work went to hell, which was often. Rodney blinked, peering up at John, breathing him in. "Need my head fixed. I, I want to shower. I know I shouldn't, don't need to again. I know, I did research, lots of research after my brother, and I know the symptoms and I know what falling apart is, I know. I know."

"Hey. Hey." There was a hand, a hand, slowly petting him, gentle and easy. "Tell me what I can do to help you?" Help him. Like anything could help him, except lots of drugs, lots and lots of them, and sleep, and more sleep, and baths. Tons of baths, and Grant, and his cat.

John would have to do.

Except he didn't know what to do with John. Not sex. He didn't want, not sex. It still hurt, and he wanted to shower, and it wouldn't work, wouldn't help anything. John was beautiful and he was as close as Rodney had to a friend. He knew that if something happened, John would be there.

"Don't know."

"Okay." Okay, because what else was John going to say? Demand answers? Demand that Rodney be okay? Because John wasn't like that, John wasn't like that at all. "Okay, buddy." His hand roamed up and down Rodney's side, just stroking, nice and easy. It was perfect, and it made Rodney want to forget, even if he couldn't.

He couldn't, and sometimes he wished he could fall into bliss like Grant did, even if his life was as full of up and down and instability as Rodney's was. Rodney's saving grace was that when people died on him, they came back. Mostly. Science at a certain level became like magic.

Like living in the lost city of the Ancients and being raped by aliens.

The thought made Rodney's throat let a laugh slide up, because that was such a true thought and such a wrong one at the same moment. If it bubbled over -- no, when -- he didn't know if he could stop. Didn't think he'd be able to at all, and then they'd send him home, and they'd send him back to Canada, and they'd probably keep him in a mental health facility for the rest of his natural life, which would be short and very drugged.

John's arms turned him, tucked him close, Rodney's face pressed against his throat. "It's okay to be upset," he murmured, and that was laughable. Military people saying things like that always made Rodney giggle despite himself, at least the American ones.

'It's okay to be upset' when they didn't subscribe to it at all, and 'It's okay to be bisexual' when he could hear the wary 'could you not hit on the guys? Or anyone?' in their voice, and it was funniest when they went on about Freedom, Democracy and Human Rights, and the importance of guns in that triangle of perfection. Lots of guns, yes, and all the Americans knew how to fire, but so did Rodney. Rodney could shoot, bang, right in the middle but only because John had made sure he knew.

If anyone other than John had said those things, he'd have known they didn't mean them. Known they meant other, hidden words, things like 'why did they let you come?' and 'how could they let somebody that crazy head the science department?'. John didn't say those things, or he didn't mean them. When they'd first come and Sumner had died (Rodney didn't think about that. Ever.), John had asked them. He'd asked them outright, firm and out loud, and Rodney hadn't minded that.

He was brilliant. He was still brilliant and he knew it, and Radek was something else. Rodney liked him well enough, but he was something else, something that hadn't shaken off the dust of the Cold War and clutched it bitterly like he was still an ex-pat freedom fighter. Rodney had worked for them forever, and he could be trusted and he knew more than anyone else in the SGC.

John was still talking, but Rodney didn't mind, or didn't care, or both, what he was saying. It was better to press his face in against John's chest. He could hear the rumble of John's voice in his chest without hearing the words, and that was all right, that felt good, made him relax a little. He still needed a bath, a, a something, anything. Anything, something to make him feel better, anyway, and his hands were warm and firm on Rodney's back, stroking soothingly.

He wished he could go back to sleep, make it all go away.

He couldn't, though. He couldn't sleep it off, shake it off like that, couldn't get rid of it like a bad shirt because it was on him, in him, and he couldn't peel his flesh off or scrub it all away because then he'd just get a skin infection and Carson would try new things.

Rodney really hated the new things. They made him nauseated, or angry, or on edge, made him sick with the medication interactions. He hated it when Carson made him take new things, and he could feel it coming, knew that Carson would do it. At least they'd come to an agreement so that Rodney was allowed to leave until Carson came down off of his high if he was spectacularly jacked up when Rodney went in. It made him afraid when Carson tried to give him something while he was doped up.

One day Carson was going to slide a needle in and it wasn't going to be Rodney's drugs; it was going to be something else, something that didn't belong in veins, and god. God dammit, that was his doctor. He was supposed to trust, and Grant trusted, and Grant could trust, so why couldn't he? Why did he end up with Mengele with a burr?

Rodney sucked in a shudder of air, and snuffled against John's chest.

"Shhh." John was petting him, and John was the only succor he had. John was just as crazy as the rest of them, in his own way, but at least John's crazy stood between Rodney and the rest of the crazies, so when it came, shuddering, teary breaths, it was easier. Easier than it could have been, not quite so difficult, not so, so, so something. So something. "Shhhh, I'll make it all right."

He didn't know how that was going to happen, because he was still falling apart. Rodney knew falling apart, knew that he was dusting at the edges, leaving residue of his brain here and there, and it might hold out for a few more weeks. He couldn't remember pulling back together from that, but John said it would be all right. He'd make it all right and Rodney had to trust John.

Did trust.

At least, in the end, Rodney could be sure that when the time came, when he wasn't useful anymore, when he lost all of the mind he had left, John wouldn't let Carson have him. Wouldn't let Kolya have him.

No. John would take him out to the south pier, and John would kiss him goodbye, and John would point his nine mil at the space just above Rodney's eyes.

There was some measure of comfort in that.