Fic: All Wound Up And No Place To Go (Gen, PG13)
Title: All Wound Up And No Place To Go
Author: djsosm
Recipient: jadesfire2808
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG13 (language)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Raise your hand if you're surprised.
Author's Notes: Takes place around the first half of season 3.
Summary: Something's wrong with Rodney. Or not. He can't decide, but - oh, look, shiny!
-o-
Rodney wouldn't shut up.
"Five miles, Sheppard. Five miles between the gate and the village, and you didn't think to bring a puddlejumper. Didn't think 'Oh, what if we get ambushed?' or 'What if someone gets hurt?' or 'What if Rodney falls in toxic mud, gets poisoned and dies before we can get help?' Because wouldn't you know it - " he waved at the brown mud that covered him from head to toe. " - And a puddlejumper would come in really very handy right about now."
Sheppard sighed and repeated for the third time in an hour, "You're not dying."
Mud dripped from Rodney's hair and into his eyes. He swiped it away to glare at Sheppard. "I'm telling you this is not good. Completely and utterly not good."
The mission was supposed to be simple: meet with the friendly people of MX5-124, trade extra medical supplies for fresh gaba root (tasted like chocolate, with enough caffeine to delight even McKay), and go home. The four of them had made the trip twice before without a problem. But neither of those trips had come during mud season.
They'd been halfway to the village when Rodney fell in a sinkhole.
"I don't know why the villagers didn't warn us," Rodney continued ranting. "We were just here two months ago. Would it have been too much for them to say 'Hey, next time you come, look out for the death mud'?"
"It's not death mud," Sheppard said, massaging a spot between his eyes where a headache was starting to blossom. He looked enviously at the backs of Ronon and Telya as they walked ahead - out of McKay range. "You're rambling. Rambling means you're fine."
Rodney gestured widely, abstractly, flinging mud in every direction. "I don't ramble! I speak quickly, and it's not my fault if everyone else can't keep up. And, sure, ordinarily my talking would be a good thing. Talking means thinking and thinking means breathing and breathing means alive and not in immanent danger of bleeding out or passing out or anything else bad or gruesome that leads to my untimely death. But now it -"
In the sinkhole, Rodney had gone under like a swimmer in riptide. One second he was there, the next there was nothing but a thick, smooth pool. Sheppard had yelled Rodney's name, shrugging out of his pack and kicking off his boots to dive in when Rodney fought to the surface, sputtering and snorting mud out of his nose. The sinkhole was not eager to give up its prize, and it took all three of them to pull him out.
Mud splattered Teyla and Ronon and slicked John's arms and face, but Rodney had gotten the worst of it. For several minutes the scientist was too weak to do anything but hunch miserably over the pit and retch while Ronon gripped the back of his tac vest to stop him from falling back in. Truthfully, they had been worried the mud was toxic. God only knew how much of the stuff McKay had swallowed, and it would be just his luck to fall into a lethal mud hole. When he had recovered enough to walk, they agreed to scrub the mission head back to the gate.
Sheppard steadied him with a hand on his arm, steering him around roots and rocks and uneven patches. Rodney had been glassy-eyed, quiet, and Sheppard briefly considered sitting him down and sending Ronon ahead for medical help. But Rodney got better as time passed. After ten minutes, he threw off Sheppard's arm and began walking on his own. After twenty, he started grumbling about poisonous goop and stupid natives who didn't put up warning signs. After thirty, he was full-on McKay, complete with mile-a-minute venting, animated gestures, and dire predictions.
"I think this stuff is eating my internal organs," Rodney said, trying to wipe the mud off his face with the back of his mud-covered arm. "Do you think it could be eating my internal organs?"
"You're not dying," Sheppard said automatically. It was beginning to feel like a mantra.
"Because this mud is different than earth mud." Rodney said, swiping a sample off the front of his shirt and rolling it between his fingers. "Feels more like paste. Tingles when it dries. Smells like chocolate. Regular mud smells like soil, feels like . . . mud. I don't know why you aren't more concerned."
Sheppard opened his mouth to assure Rodney - again - that he wasn't dying, when they crested the small hill and the gate came into sight. He smiled with relief.
McKay rambled on.
--
The infirmary was packed when they got there.
"Food poisoning. Eggs from this morning," said a nurse who bustled by with a clean emesis basin in each hand. She paused and eyed the bedraggled team, her gaze lingering on Rodney, mud-covered and tapping his foot impatiently. "Unless you're bleeding or in pain, you might want to get cleaned up and come back later."
"I'm - " Rodney started, but Sheppard interrupted with "Good idea, thanks," and practically dragged him out of the crowded infirmary.
"What'd you do that for?" Rodney groused. He pulled out of Sheppard's grip and scratched at a dry patch of mud on his arm. His skin felt like it was crawling.
Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to wait for Carson while thirty people throw up their breakfast around you or would you rather get a shower?"
Rodney brightened. "Ooh, shower."
Teyla and Ronon had already disappeared to their quarters. He and Sheppard headed toward theirs.
Rodney kept scratching his arm. A shower would be good. He really didn't have time to wait in the infirmary, didn't even have time to go back later, what with the system diagnostics and that new contagion failsafe program he was working on and those project calculations of Radek's that he promised to check out, and why Radek needed him to check the calculations was beyond him but he would do it because he didn't want someone blowing themselves up, and, come to think of it, nothing in the lab had exploded in a long time, probably bad luck to think of that but he wasn't superstitious, not overly superstitious, not really, well, maybe a little -
Sheppard was gone.
Rodney paused and looked around. The colonel had stopped several yards back and was standing outside Rodney's quarters, giving him an odd look. Rodney jogged over.
It felt good to jog.
"Hey," he said, ignoring Sheppard's look. "Thanks. I was lost in thought, and you know how it is, one thing pops into your head and then another and then you forget where you're going and -"
"You all right?"
Rodney nodded. Actually, except for the itching - which really was starting to drive him nuts - he felt fine. Great. A bit wired, maybe. But he did just cheat death from a sucking mud hole. . . .
"Fine," he said. "I'm fine."
Sheppard narrowed his eyes. "You aren't freaking out over the mud are you? Because I'm sure it's harmless. Go see Carson later, he'll tell you."
"I'm not freaking out," Rodney scoffed. "I'm good. Fine. Great. Shower. Bye."
He disappeared inside his quarters without giving Sheppard the chance to say anything else.
Rodney peeled off his clothes on the way to the bathroom, his sodden, mud-caked jacket slapping first onto the floor, then his shirt, then his pants. He turned up the shower as hot as it would go and stepped into the stream of water. Snatching up the bar of soap, he scrubbed hard and fast, sending layer after layer of dirt down the drain.
His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over each other in a desperate bid to take priority. He had to get to the lab. No, food first. No, Radek's calculations first. No, system diagnostics. Control room. Infirmary. Coffee.
Run!
The itching had stopped, but his skin still tingled and now it felt too tight, constricting. He needed to move. He needed to run.
Rodney hopped out of the shower, pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants and was out the door before the last of the muddy water had swirled down the drain.
He ran for an hour, jogging first through the catacombs Ronon and Sheppard followed every morning, then sprinting into the under-explored area of the city, where he ran laps over and over and over while calculating compression ratios.
He would have kept going - the burn in his legs actually felt good - but he got a sudden flash of insight about Radek's project. He did an about-face and headed to the lab.
"Yes, Rodney," Radek said, barely glancing up as Rodney jogged in, "I know you wanted this by morning but it has taken - " His head snapped up. "Are you out of breath?"
Rodney nodded, leaning against a worktable to stretch his right hamstring. "Ran here."
Radek's eyes widened with alarm. "What's wrong? What is about to explode?"
Rodney waved away the concern and shifted to stretch his other hamstring. "Nothing. I just felt like going for a jog."
"You?" Radek's glasses slid forward on his nose and he pushed them back. "You felt like running?"
Rodney straightened, annoyed. "It's not like I've never run before."
"But without someone chasing you?"
Rodney glared at him. "Look, I had some extra energy to burn off. Do you want to know why I'm here or not?"
By the time Rodney was halfway through his explanation, Radek's astonishment had been replaced with glee. He snapped up his laptop and began running a new simulation with Rodney's calculations.
"It works!" Radek exclaimed with a touch too much surprise for Rodney's liking.
"Of course it works. I came up with it." Rodney bounced on the balls of his feet. He still had energy to burn. "You play with that. I'll be back."
Radek looked up. "Rodney, where are you - "
But he was already out the door.
--
Mess hall. Control room. Infirmary. Balcony. Jumper bay. Gate room. So many places to go. The city was really huge and really cool, with so many things to see and places to explore and mysteries to solve and -
Ooh, gym.
Ronon was there, practicing strikes against the padded dummy. Rodney watched from the doorway for a moment. Did he really want to do this? He tapped his fingers against his thighs, restless. Yes, yes he did.
"Hey," Ronon said, glancing over.
"Hey," Rodney answered. "Want to spar?"
Ronon's punch missed the dummy. He turned. "What?"
Rodney scowled. "I asked if you - oh never mind." He started to storm away.
"McKay, wait!"
Rodney stopped and turned, fists clenching and unclenching as he glared at Ronon.
"What?"
Ronon grabbed a towel from the bench and wiped his face, his gaze steady on Rodney. "You really want to spar?"
Rodney offered a self-conscious half shrug in answer.
Ronon tossed the towel away and walked to the center of the mat. "Let's go then."
Some part of Rodney moaned Bad, bad idea as he stepped on to the mat. Another, louder, part of him insisted Yes! Movemovemovemove!
The Satedan always easily blocked his punches, always dodged his moves without effort. Feint left, jab right, it didn't matter. Even on Rodney's best day, Ronon could wipe the floor with him. Today was no exception.
After a particularly harsh landing on the mat - jumped when he should have twisted, then twisted when he should have jumped - Rodney stayed on his back, peered up at Ronon and, breathing hard, announced, "Break time."
Ronon grinned, extending a hand to help him up. "Doing good," he said.
Rodney waived the hand away. "I'm fine here, thanks." He paused. "In what universe would you call this 'doing good'?"
Ronon tossed him a spare bottle of water, then started gathering up his things. "We've been sparring for two hours."
Rodney huffed a laugh. "We have not."
Ronon raised an eyebrow and motioned to the clock on the wall. "Check it out."
Rodney glanced at the clock, his mouth already open to snipe "Oh ha, very funny," but the words died on his lips. He sat up. Two hours had passed.
"Promised I'd help train some of the new guys on weapons. Gotta go. Did good, McKay."
Rodney nodded numbly, his eyes still on the clock as Ronon left. A half hour was usually his limit. He'd never, ever sparred for more than forty-five minutes. He was sore, sure - his neck and back twinged and his left wrist ached from when he'd landed on it - but he wasn't exhausted. Wasn't even tired.
His stomach twisted with a sudden realization: If Ronon hadn't left, Rodney would have asked him to go another round.
--
The infirmary was still busy.
With Carson nowhere in sight, Rodney stopped the first nurse he could find. "Where's -"
"Dr. Beckett's with a patient," the guy said, nodding at a set of curtains pulled around a bed. "Are you sick?"
"No, I'm - "
Energetic.
Restless.
Hyper.
"Never mind." Rodney jammed his hands in his pockets and left.
Even he wasn't a big enough hypochondriac to complain about being hyper.
But still. . . .
His hands twitched in his pockets, fidgety with nothing to fidget with, and his legs vibrated with the need to run. It took all his self-control to hold himself to a measured walking pace. Maybe he should find Sheppard. Sheppard would. . . .
Would what?
Send him to Carson.
Crap.
Okay, best-case scenario: He was fine and Sheppard would worry unnecessarily or laugh at him for worrying unnecessarily. Worst-case scenario: He wasn't fine and Sheppard would feel responsible for saving his ass. Again. What was it, like three times in this month? Unless you counted MX5-327, which Rodney totally did not, because he would have been just fine, thank you very much, if Sheppard had let him and the Rilian matriarch's pretty daughter finish the special sharing ceremony she'd set up just for him, and he was loopy on welcome tea like Sheppard said he was, at least not that loopy, kind of floaty maybe -
His left calf muscle spasmed with pent up energy and his hands twitched in unison.
Right. Off track.
He could deal with this. It wasn't serious or life threatening. Wasn't like the enzyme. He didn't feel invincible. He was just energized. And just because he should've passed out after running for an hour and then working out with Ronon for two. . . no need to panic. He just needed to. . . uh. . . wear himself out. Yes! He needed to get himself completely exhausted. Shouldn't be that hard. He'd already overdone it today, what with the deadly mud hole and jogging and sparring. Had to be close to getting tired.
He broke into a run.
--
Two hours later Rodney was drenched in sweat but still restless.
He jogged out to the east pier, letting the warm breeze dry his skin. The air was salty and refreshing and did absolutely nothing to make him tired. His hands shook a little and his heart raced at the thought something could be seriously, seriously wrong here. But that was ridiculous. He just had to -
Swim.
Swimming always exhausted him.
Without even bothering to strip off his shirt, he dove off the pier.
--
It was dark by the time he immerged. Soaked. Arms aching.
Still wired.
Firing range!
Between the evening breeze and the time it took him to jog back, his clothes were barely damp when he reached the city. By the time he got to the range, they were completely dry.
The range was empty. He signed out a handgun, grabbed his safety gear, and loped to the farthest shooting pit. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he took aim at the paper target.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Reload.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Reload.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
He returned the handgun and signed out a P-90.
--
The mess hall was deserted when he got there. Everyone in the city was asleep.
Everyone but him.
Rodney grabbed a leftover chocolate chip muffin and a mug of hot chocolate and brought them out to the balcony. The sky was clear, bright with stars. Stuffing half the muffin in his mouth, he laid down on the deck. Stargazing. Stargazing always relaxed him. Exercise wasn't what he needed, he decided. Relaxation was. He needed to calm down, let his body unwind.
He stuffed the other half of the muffin in his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring. He settled against the deck, folded his hands on his stomach. Comfort food, warm night, stargazing. Perfect. . . .
Three hours later, up and pacing, he'd mapped out and named all the constellations - twice. He'd mentally completed the new contagion failsafe program, created a new jogging path through the city and recited pi to the five hundredth decimal place.
He trotted to his lab.
--
Rodney's knee bounced frantically as he sat at his workstation. His heart raced and he could practically feel his blood thrumming through his veins. He couldn't concentrate. Not on the failsafe code, not on Radek's calculations, not on system diagnostics.
Rodney growled and shot to his feet, shoving the stool back with such force that it fell over with a clatter. He didn't get it. He didn't get it! What the hell was going on?
He was worried now, almost frustrated enough to call Sheppard or wake up Carson and tell him to shoot him with an elephant tranquillizer because, really, this was not normal and he should be in a damn coma by now but instead he was walking the length of his lab, obsessively clenching and unclenching his fists, wide awake and hyper as hell and -
Like a speeding train suddenly out of tracks, Rodney crashed.
--
Sheppard hated it when Rodney did his disappearing thing.
"McKay, where are you?" he demanded over the radio as he stalked toward the lab. The other end of the radio was - and had been for the last hour - silent.
They were supposed to meet with Elizabeth at 8 a.m. to go over the new contagion protocols Rodney had been wanting. But the scientist never showed. Their radio calls went unanswered. Carson said Rodney had never returned to the infirmary for a post-mission check. A marine on the nightshift saw him jogging toward his lab, but that had been three hours ago and no one had seen him since.
Sheppard decided to check his lab, then his quarters. Rodney was in one of those places nine times out of 10 when he disappeared, asleep without his radio on or too engrossed in a project to realize what time it was or to notice that he'd left his radio in the mess hall during his last coffee run.
After the lab and Rodney's quarters, Sheppard would forget this little game of hide and seek and go straight for his subcu transmitter. Nine times out of ten. . . but that tenth time was hell.
Sheppard rounded the corner. "Hey, McKay - "
The lab was empty.
Sheppard picked up a stool that had fallen on its side. Rodney's laptop was there, in sleep mode until he tapped the space bar. It showed a page of calculations that abruptly ended mid-equation. Sheppard's heart stuttered a beat. Rodney never stopped mid-equation.
Sheppard tapped his radio, already striding out of the lab and toward the living quarters. "Rodney. Dammit. Answer me."
More silence.
He moved faster.
Rodney didn't answer his door on the first chime. Or - after Sheppard made another attempt at radio contact - the second.
Sheppard overrode the door lock and stepped inside, forcing lightness into his voice as he announced, "If you're in here, you better be dressed, McKay, because neither of us needs that kind of trauma."
The room was dark and Sheppard bumped up the lights, hoping to find Rodney asleep. The bed was empty. Light spilled from underneath the closed door of the bathroom and with it came the faint sounds of the shower.
Sheppard really, really wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but the lump in his throat wouldn't let him.
"Rodney, you there?" he called, moving close to the door. "You missed the eight o'clock with Weir."
Nothing.
"Okay, fair warning. I'm coming in," he said and opened the door.
Rodney was wedged in the space between the toilet and the shower, knees drawn to his chest, head slumped forward, his skin pale against the dark t-shirt and sweatpants he wore. Steam billowed from shower, making the room hot and humid, but Rodney was shivering.
"Shit," Sheppard cursed and thought the water off as he dropped to his knees in front of Rodney. Sheppard touched his shoulder, alarmed when he could feel the cold of Rodney's skin even through the heat of the steam-dampened t-shirt. "Hey, buddy, talk to me."
When Rodney didn't answer - didn't move, didn't even blink - Sheppard shook him lightly and tried his command voice. "McKay. Look at me."
Rodney raised his head slowly, droplets of water quivering on his eyelashes. His gaze was vacant. For the second time that morning, Sheppard's heart stuttered.
He tapped his radio. "Carson, I'm in Rodney's quarters. We've got an emergency. You better get down here."
Sheppard ran a hand through Rodney's hair, across his chest, down his arms and legs. He felt no bumps to his head, no breaks, no blood. Sheppard didn't think he should do anything else until Beckett got there.
Then Rodney whimpered and convulsed in a hard, sharp shiver, and Sheppard jumped.
"Let's get you out of here," he said, tugging Rodney up. He was slack, like a marionette with severed strings, and Sheppard had to sling Rodney's arm over his shoulder and fist the back of his damp t-shirt to keep him steady.
In 10 steps, Rodney stumbled twice.
At the bed, Sheppard maneuvered them until the backs of Rodney's knees bumped the edge of the mattress and he sat down. Sheppard withdrew his hands slowly, watching Rodney droop forward but not fall.
In the full light of the main room Rodney looked even paler, a light sheen of moisture - sweat or mist from the shower - covered his face and arms. His eyes were dilated, more black than blue.
Sheppard riffled through Rodney's dresser, casting anxious glances over his shoulder. By the time he pulled out a clean t-shirt, Rodney was listing heavily to the left. Sheppard dashed forward and, with a hand to his chest, pushed him back upright.
Under his palm, Rodney's heart raced.
Sheppard swore softly, barely restraining himself from calling Beckett and demanding he materialize right god damn now. Instead he steadied Rodney with one hand and stripped his soggy t-shirt off with the other. Shivers wracked Rodney as soon as the air hit his bare skin, and Sheppard hurried to pull the new shirt over his head and thread his arms through the sleeves. When he was done, he snagged the soft Athosian blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it around Rodney's shoulders. The shaking reduced to a tremble but didn't stop.
Except for that whimper in the bathroom, Rodney had remained eerily silent. His gaze seemed fixed on a middle-distant spot on the floor, and Sheppard crouched in front of him, directly in his line of sight. The scientist's eyes were clouded, unfocused, and Sheppard tilted his own head, shifted slightly, determined to make eye contact.
"Hey," he said, placing a hand on Rodney's knee. "Carson will be here any second. Wanna fill me in on what's going on?"
There was no reaction.
Keeping his eyes on Rodney's face, Sheppard wrapped a hand around his wrist, feeling the thrum of his pulse. "I'll be honest, the silent thing doesn't work for you. Rambling, sure. Ranting, definitely. But a quiet McKay is just wrong."
Rodney blinked once, languid, and Sheppard excitedly searched his face for any twitch of recognition. "You in there, buddy? Carson's com -"
And then Carson was suddenly there, out of breath as he nudged Sheppard out of the way with a "S'cuse me, son."
Sheppard slid aside, darting glances between Rodney's face and Beckett's hands as he gathered vitals. "He hasn't responded at all," Sheppard said.
"Looks like shock," Carson said, reaching for Rodney's wrist. "You mentioned the mud earlier, but no injuries or -"
Fingers on Rodney's racing pulse, Carson whistled softly.
Rodney began leaning forward and Sheppard caught him by the shoulder before he could tumble off the bed. "Carson?"
But Carson was already radioing for a gurney.
It would take the med team five minutes to get there. In the meantime Carson finished gathering vitals. At the penlight Rodney winced slightly and drew back.
"Rodney!" Sheppard exclaimed as Carson said, "Come on, lad. Come back, now."
Rodney's eyes were still unfocused, but he blinked, turned his head away from the light and made a protesting sound in the back of his throat.
"Rodney." Carson put away the light and shook his shoulder slightly. "Rodney, do you know where you are?"
Rodney made a grumbling noise and said something, but the words were too low, lost under his breath.
"Rodney," Carson repeated, more loudly this time, "do you know where you are?"
Rodney raised his head and worked to focus his eyes. "'M right here," he said crossly.
Then he passed out.
--
Rodney woke to the beeping of a heart monitor.
Fast beeping.
His heart monitor.
Even as his heart raced, his body felt achy, heavy, saturated. It took effort to pull his eyes open.
"So." Sheppard's voice, to his right. "That mud you swallowed and got coated in? Doc says it was the equivalent of downing a bottle of No-Doze, a 12-pack of Mountain Dew and a couple of pots of that god-awful extra strength coffee you make. Black."
Rodney worked to turn his head. When he did he found not only Sheppard at his bedside but also Teyla and Ronon.
"Hey, buddy," Sheppard said. "How're you feeling?"
"I - " Rodney croaked. He cleared his throat and the beeping heart monitor kicked up the pace. What the hell? The beeping got faster. What, was he going to stroke out here? The beeping got even faster. Rodney struggled to sit up. "Why -
"Rodney, Rodney." Teyla put her hand on his shoulder. "You must calm yourself."
"But - "
"Everything is well," she promised.
The weight of her hand was warm, her words reassuring. Rodney felt his heartbeat slow a tick, and the beeping slowed with it.
"You're still on the caffeine bender from hell," Sheppard told him. "Carson said your body couldn't take it anymore. The engine's still revving but the tires burned out."
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Car metaphors," he croaked. "Ser'ously?"
Sheppard's lips twitched. He retrieved a cup of water with a straw from the bedside table and helped Rodney sit up enough to drink. "The ZPM's charged but the - "
"I get it," Rodney interrupted. He sipped at the water, luxuriating in the cool trickle that soothed his throat until Sheppard took it away. His skin still felt tight, the blood hummed through his veins. His hands trembled, his feet twitched. If he could get up he'd be pacing. It felt like the aftermath of every adrenaline-dosed EpiPen he'd ever had - all wired with no place to go. "How much longer?"
Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon shared a glance. Rodney's heart rate kicked back up.
"A while," Ronon said.
--
Carson didn't want to sedate him. Too great a chance the medication would interact badly with the chemicals left in his system. Carson wanted him calm, wanted his heart rate to stay out of the danger zone, wanted him to sleep, ideally, but it was all up to Rodney.
And how the hell was he supposed to do that, Rodney fumed, listening to the quick beepbeepbeep of the monitor beside him. He couldn't keep himself calm normally, not even on the best of days, when his minions were acting intelligent and the Wraith weren't knocking on their door and Sheppard wasn't riding off on some suicide mission -
Rodney took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Clear blue skies. Clear blue skies. . . .
Beside him the monitor beeped faster.
"Yeah, that's annoying," Sheppard said.
Rodney opened his eyes to find Sheppard slapping off the heart monitor.
"Hey!" Rodney yelped. "I need that."
"I don't think so," Sheppard said.
Rodney frowned. "Déjà vu."
"No ascension this time," Sheppard said, pulling up a chair. "In fact, that's our goal: no ascension."
"'Our goal?' My buzz isn't team project, Colonel." His hands trembled a little harder and he shoved them under his blankets. "Besides, I thought you guys went to get dinner."
Sheppard shrugged. "Grabbed a sandwich and ate it on the way back."
"Teyla and Ronon?"
"They'll be back later. Thought we'd take turns."
Rodney started to cross his arms, then felt the trembling and thought better of it. "I don't need a babysitter," he grumped.
"Okay. I just figured that given the choice between sitting here, bored, going out of your mind listening to the beep, beep, beep -" Sheppard pulled a travel chess set out of his pocket " - and getting your ass beaten at chess, you'd rather - "
"Ha! Like you ever beat me at chess."
Sheppard looked at him.
"Once," Rodney amended.
Sheppard raised an eyebrow.
"Just give me that." Rodney snatched the chess set.
Sheppard smirked. "Knew you'd see it my way."
Rodney slid over so they could set up the board on the bed. Sheppard began laying out the pieces.
"So," Sheppard said, suddenly serious and sounding apologetic, "on the planet, I didn't know - "
"I told you so!" Rodney crowed.
Sheppard looked up, all trace of apology gone. "Well, I didn't know!"
"I said - "
"You were rambling. Ranting. That's how we know when you're fine."
"Well," Rodney huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "I wasn't fine, was I?"
Sheppard looked at Rodney's shaking hands. "No," he said, remorseful. "No you weren't."
Rodney shoved his hands back under the blankets. Sheppard looked away, finished setting up the board.
"I didn't know, either," Rodney admitted after a moment. "Not really." He felt his hands shake, his heart race, every muscle on edge and ready to run-jump-move! even though his body ached, too exhausted, too spent to take the order. "You could have listened on the planet. I could have said something after."
Sheppard twirled a knight in his fingers and nodded slowly. "So."
"Yeah," Rodney said.
"Then we're -
"Good," Rodney finished.
"Good," Sheppard said and set down the knight. "Your move, Bobby Fischer."
"Please!" Rodney scoffed, moving his pawn. He was going to wipe the board with Sheppard. "Fischer was -"
Even without the monitor Rodney could feel his heartbeat kick up. Crap.
"You know," he said, "chess doesn't exactly keep me calm."
"Yeah," Sheppard said. "I just realized that."
--
Teyla wanted to try meditation. It was a nice thought.
But no.
"Teyla, I - "
"Rodney, if you quiet your mind, your body may follow," she said, sitting on the bed across from his. She looked serene. He was ready to jump out of his skin.
She closed her eyes, obviously expecting him to follow. With a sigh, he did.
Without external stimuli to focus on, his mind was free. His thoughts tumbled over each other, spinning, chasing, jumbled in chaos of calculations, plans, memories, doubts, expectations, what-ifs -
His eyes snapped open. "Teyla."
Teyla opened her own eyes and looked at him with a question she didn't have to voice.
"It's not working," he said.
--
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney stared back.
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney stared ba-
"What?" Rodney demanded.
Ronon shrugged from his chair at the end of Rodney's bed. "Sheppard said to help you relax."
Rodney blinked. Even his speeding brain couldn't process that. "What?"
"Helps me." Ronon said. "Might help you."
"Staring at people relaxes you." That was. . . creepy.
"Watching."
"Watching people relaxes you." Nope, still creepy.
"Watching everything," Ronon corrected.
And, okay, given Ronon's background as a runner that was kind of understandable.
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney stared back.
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney star-
"Not helping!"
--
Rodney was just about to call for Carson and beg him to shoot him up with something, anything, possibly a stunner, when Sheppard showed up with a laptop under his arm.
"Yes!" Rodney shouted and reached out, hands grabbing at air. "Gimme, gimme, gimme."
Sheppard held it above Rodney's head, just out of reach. It was about the meanest thing Rodney had ever experienced. "Sheppard!" he barked. "What part of 'gimme' is too hard for you to understand?"
Sheppard grinned and opened his mouth to say something when Carson poked his head around the corner. "Colonel."
Sheppard lowered the laptop. "Sorry, doc."
Carson eyed the computer. "Not work, I hope."
"Not even close," Sheppard said.
"'Not even close?'" Rodney echoed. His hands had stopped shaking about an hour ago, but his heart was still thrumming. He could have gotten lost in work. Work could have helped.
"Work wouldn't help," Sheppard said, as if reading Rodney's mind.
"Would," Rodney insisted.
Sheppard didn't say anything, just pulled up a chair and popped open the laptop.
"Fine," Rodney said, exasperated. "What is this wonderful thing that's so much better than work?"
Sheppard grinned and slid the laptop around so Rodney could see the screen. The opening sequence for the new Doctor Who. Rodney's jaw dropped.
"Got the whole first two seasons," Sheppard said. "It was supposed to be a birthday thing, so you'll have to act surprised when you open these again in a month."
"I am sure Rodney will be gracious," Teyla said, entering with a large bowl of popcorn. Behind her Ronon carried a package of Oreos and drinks.
Rodney nodded. "Gracious," he said. "Yes. Definitely. Press play."
Teyla laughed and Ronon grunted with amusement and Sheppard grinned and set the laptop on a sliding table pulled across the foot of Rodney's bed. They took up spots around him: Teyla and Sheppard in plastic chairs on either side of him, Ronon on the bed beside them, scooted close and angled so they could all see the screen. Sheppard dimmed the lights.
They passed around popcorn and Oreos, and they all popped open (decaffeinated) sodas. When the popcorn bowl ended up back with him, Rodney balanced it on his chest and slouched down, comfortable. Once in a while one of the others would grab a handful of popcorn, brushing Rodney's shoulder or his hand.
Rodney sank lower into the pillows. Around him his friends whispered, moving seamlessly from talk of good popcorn to bad special effects to what they would do with a tardis. Rodney felt dramatically less twitchy. Possibly not twitchy at all. He yawned.
On screen the Doctor was having a long talk with a blond woman. Teyla said something. Sheppard said something. Murmurs, indistinct, the background sound of every team movie night. Common. Comforting. His heart thumped in time to the cadence of their voices, slow and steady. Rodney's eyes fluttered closed.
Finally, with his team around him, he slept.
Author: djsosm
Recipient: jadesfire2808
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG13 (language)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Raise your hand if you're surprised.
Author's Notes: Takes place around the first half of season 3.
Summary: Something's wrong with Rodney. Or not. He can't decide, but - oh, look, shiny!
-o-
Rodney wouldn't shut up.
"Five miles, Sheppard. Five miles between the gate and the village, and you didn't think to bring a puddlejumper. Didn't think 'Oh, what if we get ambushed?' or 'What if someone gets hurt?' or 'What if Rodney falls in toxic mud, gets poisoned and dies before we can get help?' Because wouldn't you know it - " he waved at the brown mud that covered him from head to toe. " - And a puddlejumper would come in really very handy right about now."
Sheppard sighed and repeated for the third time in an hour, "You're not dying."
Mud dripped from Rodney's hair and into his eyes. He swiped it away to glare at Sheppard. "I'm telling you this is not good. Completely and utterly not good."
The mission was supposed to be simple: meet with the friendly people of MX5-124, trade extra medical supplies for fresh gaba root (tasted like chocolate, with enough caffeine to delight even McKay), and go home. The four of them had made the trip twice before without a problem. But neither of those trips had come during mud season.
They'd been halfway to the village when Rodney fell in a sinkhole.
"I don't know why the villagers didn't warn us," Rodney continued ranting. "We were just here two months ago. Would it have been too much for them to say 'Hey, next time you come, look out for the death mud'?"
"It's not death mud," Sheppard said, massaging a spot between his eyes where a headache was starting to blossom. He looked enviously at the backs of Ronon and Telya as they walked ahead - out of McKay range. "You're rambling. Rambling means you're fine."
Rodney gestured widely, abstractly, flinging mud in every direction. "I don't ramble! I speak quickly, and it's not my fault if everyone else can't keep up. And, sure, ordinarily my talking would be a good thing. Talking means thinking and thinking means breathing and breathing means alive and not in immanent danger of bleeding out or passing out or anything else bad or gruesome that leads to my untimely death. But now it -"
In the sinkhole, Rodney had gone under like a swimmer in riptide. One second he was there, the next there was nothing but a thick, smooth pool. Sheppard had yelled Rodney's name, shrugging out of his pack and kicking off his boots to dive in when Rodney fought to the surface, sputtering and snorting mud out of his nose. The sinkhole was not eager to give up its prize, and it took all three of them to pull him out.
Mud splattered Teyla and Ronon and slicked John's arms and face, but Rodney had gotten the worst of it. For several minutes the scientist was too weak to do anything but hunch miserably over the pit and retch while Ronon gripped the back of his tac vest to stop him from falling back in. Truthfully, they had been worried the mud was toxic. God only knew how much of the stuff McKay had swallowed, and it would be just his luck to fall into a lethal mud hole. When he had recovered enough to walk, they agreed to scrub the mission head back to the gate.
Sheppard steadied him with a hand on his arm, steering him around roots and rocks and uneven patches. Rodney had been glassy-eyed, quiet, and Sheppard briefly considered sitting him down and sending Ronon ahead for medical help. But Rodney got better as time passed. After ten minutes, he threw off Sheppard's arm and began walking on his own. After twenty, he started grumbling about poisonous goop and stupid natives who didn't put up warning signs. After thirty, he was full-on McKay, complete with mile-a-minute venting, animated gestures, and dire predictions.
"I think this stuff is eating my internal organs," Rodney said, trying to wipe the mud off his face with the back of his mud-covered arm. "Do you think it could be eating my internal organs?"
"You're not dying," Sheppard said automatically. It was beginning to feel like a mantra.
"Because this mud is different than earth mud." Rodney said, swiping a sample off the front of his shirt and rolling it between his fingers. "Feels more like paste. Tingles when it dries. Smells like chocolate. Regular mud smells like soil, feels like . . . mud. I don't know why you aren't more concerned."
Sheppard opened his mouth to assure Rodney - again - that he wasn't dying, when they crested the small hill and the gate came into sight. He smiled with relief.
McKay rambled on.
--
The infirmary was packed when they got there.
"Food poisoning. Eggs from this morning," said a nurse who bustled by with a clean emesis basin in each hand. She paused and eyed the bedraggled team, her gaze lingering on Rodney, mud-covered and tapping his foot impatiently. "Unless you're bleeding or in pain, you might want to get cleaned up and come back later."
"I'm - " Rodney started, but Sheppard interrupted with "Good idea, thanks," and practically dragged him out of the crowded infirmary.
"What'd you do that for?" Rodney groused. He pulled out of Sheppard's grip and scratched at a dry patch of mud on his arm. His skin felt like it was crawling.
Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to wait for Carson while thirty people throw up their breakfast around you or would you rather get a shower?"
Rodney brightened. "Ooh, shower."
Teyla and Ronon had already disappeared to their quarters. He and Sheppard headed toward theirs.
Rodney kept scratching his arm. A shower would be good. He really didn't have time to wait in the infirmary, didn't even have time to go back later, what with the system diagnostics and that new contagion failsafe program he was working on and those project calculations of Radek's that he promised to check out, and why Radek needed him to check the calculations was beyond him but he would do it because he didn't want someone blowing themselves up, and, come to think of it, nothing in the lab had exploded in a long time, probably bad luck to think of that but he wasn't superstitious, not overly superstitious, not really, well, maybe a little -
Sheppard was gone.
Rodney paused and looked around. The colonel had stopped several yards back and was standing outside Rodney's quarters, giving him an odd look. Rodney jogged over.
It felt good to jog.
"Hey," he said, ignoring Sheppard's look. "Thanks. I was lost in thought, and you know how it is, one thing pops into your head and then another and then you forget where you're going and -"
"You all right?"
Rodney nodded. Actually, except for the itching - which really was starting to drive him nuts - he felt fine. Great. A bit wired, maybe. But he did just cheat death from a sucking mud hole. . . .
"Fine," he said. "I'm fine."
Sheppard narrowed his eyes. "You aren't freaking out over the mud are you? Because I'm sure it's harmless. Go see Carson later, he'll tell you."
"I'm not freaking out," Rodney scoffed. "I'm good. Fine. Great. Shower. Bye."
He disappeared inside his quarters without giving Sheppard the chance to say anything else.
Rodney peeled off his clothes on the way to the bathroom, his sodden, mud-caked jacket slapping first onto the floor, then his shirt, then his pants. He turned up the shower as hot as it would go and stepped into the stream of water. Snatching up the bar of soap, he scrubbed hard and fast, sending layer after layer of dirt down the drain.
His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over each other in a desperate bid to take priority. He had to get to the lab. No, food first. No, Radek's calculations first. No, system diagnostics. Control room. Infirmary. Coffee.
Run!
The itching had stopped, but his skin still tingled and now it felt too tight, constricting. He needed to move. He needed to run.
Rodney hopped out of the shower, pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants and was out the door before the last of the muddy water had swirled down the drain.
He ran for an hour, jogging first through the catacombs Ronon and Sheppard followed every morning, then sprinting into the under-explored area of the city, where he ran laps over and over and over while calculating compression ratios.
He would have kept going - the burn in his legs actually felt good - but he got a sudden flash of insight about Radek's project. He did an about-face and headed to the lab.
"Yes, Rodney," Radek said, barely glancing up as Rodney jogged in, "I know you wanted this by morning but it has taken - " His head snapped up. "Are you out of breath?"
Rodney nodded, leaning against a worktable to stretch his right hamstring. "Ran here."
Radek's eyes widened with alarm. "What's wrong? What is about to explode?"
Rodney waved away the concern and shifted to stretch his other hamstring. "Nothing. I just felt like going for a jog."
"You?" Radek's glasses slid forward on his nose and he pushed them back. "You felt like running?"
Rodney straightened, annoyed. "It's not like I've never run before."
"But without someone chasing you?"
Rodney glared at him. "Look, I had some extra energy to burn off. Do you want to know why I'm here or not?"
By the time Rodney was halfway through his explanation, Radek's astonishment had been replaced with glee. He snapped up his laptop and began running a new simulation with Rodney's calculations.
"It works!" Radek exclaimed with a touch too much surprise for Rodney's liking.
"Of course it works. I came up with it." Rodney bounced on the balls of his feet. He still had energy to burn. "You play with that. I'll be back."
Radek looked up. "Rodney, where are you - "
But he was already out the door.
--
Mess hall. Control room. Infirmary. Balcony. Jumper bay. Gate room. So many places to go. The city was really huge and really cool, with so many things to see and places to explore and mysteries to solve and -
Ooh, gym.
Ronon was there, practicing strikes against the padded dummy. Rodney watched from the doorway for a moment. Did he really want to do this? He tapped his fingers against his thighs, restless. Yes, yes he did.
"Hey," Ronon said, glancing over.
"Hey," Rodney answered. "Want to spar?"
Ronon's punch missed the dummy. He turned. "What?"
Rodney scowled. "I asked if you - oh never mind." He started to storm away.
"McKay, wait!"
Rodney stopped and turned, fists clenching and unclenching as he glared at Ronon.
"What?"
Ronon grabbed a towel from the bench and wiped his face, his gaze steady on Rodney. "You really want to spar?"
Rodney offered a self-conscious half shrug in answer.
Ronon tossed the towel away and walked to the center of the mat. "Let's go then."
Some part of Rodney moaned Bad, bad idea as he stepped on to the mat. Another, louder, part of him insisted Yes! Movemovemovemove!
The Satedan always easily blocked his punches, always dodged his moves without effort. Feint left, jab right, it didn't matter. Even on Rodney's best day, Ronon could wipe the floor with him. Today was no exception.
After a particularly harsh landing on the mat - jumped when he should have twisted, then twisted when he should have jumped - Rodney stayed on his back, peered up at Ronon and, breathing hard, announced, "Break time."
Ronon grinned, extending a hand to help him up. "Doing good," he said.
Rodney waived the hand away. "I'm fine here, thanks." He paused. "In what universe would you call this 'doing good'?"
Ronon tossed him a spare bottle of water, then started gathering up his things. "We've been sparring for two hours."
Rodney huffed a laugh. "We have not."
Ronon raised an eyebrow and motioned to the clock on the wall. "Check it out."
Rodney glanced at the clock, his mouth already open to snipe "Oh ha, very funny," but the words died on his lips. He sat up. Two hours had passed.
"Promised I'd help train some of the new guys on weapons. Gotta go. Did good, McKay."
Rodney nodded numbly, his eyes still on the clock as Ronon left. A half hour was usually his limit. He'd never, ever sparred for more than forty-five minutes. He was sore, sure - his neck and back twinged and his left wrist ached from when he'd landed on it - but he wasn't exhausted. Wasn't even tired.
His stomach twisted with a sudden realization: If Ronon hadn't left, Rodney would have asked him to go another round.
--
The infirmary was still busy.
With Carson nowhere in sight, Rodney stopped the first nurse he could find. "Where's -"
"Dr. Beckett's with a patient," the guy said, nodding at a set of curtains pulled around a bed. "Are you sick?"
"No, I'm - "
Energetic.
Restless.
Hyper.
"Never mind." Rodney jammed his hands in his pockets and left.
Even he wasn't a big enough hypochondriac to complain about being hyper.
But still. . . .
His hands twitched in his pockets, fidgety with nothing to fidget with, and his legs vibrated with the need to run. It took all his self-control to hold himself to a measured walking pace. Maybe he should find Sheppard. Sheppard would. . . .
Would what?
Send him to Carson.
Crap.
Okay, best-case scenario: He was fine and Sheppard would worry unnecessarily or laugh at him for worrying unnecessarily. Worst-case scenario: He wasn't fine and Sheppard would feel responsible for saving his ass. Again. What was it, like three times in this month? Unless you counted MX5-327, which Rodney totally did not, because he would have been just fine, thank you very much, if Sheppard had let him and the Rilian matriarch's pretty daughter finish the special sharing ceremony she'd set up just for him, and he was loopy on welcome tea like Sheppard said he was, at least not that loopy, kind of floaty maybe -
His left calf muscle spasmed with pent up energy and his hands twitched in unison.
Right. Off track.
He could deal with this. It wasn't serious or life threatening. Wasn't like the enzyme. He didn't feel invincible. He was just energized. And just because he should've passed out after running for an hour and then working out with Ronon for two. . . no need to panic. He just needed to. . . uh. . . wear himself out. Yes! He needed to get himself completely exhausted. Shouldn't be that hard. He'd already overdone it today, what with the deadly mud hole and jogging and sparring. Had to be close to getting tired.
He broke into a run.
--
Two hours later Rodney was drenched in sweat but still restless.
He jogged out to the east pier, letting the warm breeze dry his skin. The air was salty and refreshing and did absolutely nothing to make him tired. His hands shook a little and his heart raced at the thought something could be seriously, seriously wrong here. But that was ridiculous. He just had to -
Swim.
Swimming always exhausted him.
Without even bothering to strip off his shirt, he dove off the pier.
--
It was dark by the time he immerged. Soaked. Arms aching.
Still wired.
Firing range!
Between the evening breeze and the time it took him to jog back, his clothes were barely damp when he reached the city. By the time he got to the range, they were completely dry.
The range was empty. He signed out a handgun, grabbed his safety gear, and loped to the farthest shooting pit. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he took aim at the paper target.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Reload.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Reload.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
He returned the handgun and signed out a P-90.
--
The mess hall was deserted when he got there. Everyone in the city was asleep.
Everyone but him.
Rodney grabbed a leftover chocolate chip muffin and a mug of hot chocolate and brought them out to the balcony. The sky was clear, bright with stars. Stuffing half the muffin in his mouth, he laid down on the deck. Stargazing. Stargazing always relaxed him. Exercise wasn't what he needed, he decided. Relaxation was. He needed to calm down, let his body unwind.
He stuffed the other half of the muffin in his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring. He settled against the deck, folded his hands on his stomach. Comfort food, warm night, stargazing. Perfect. . . .
Three hours later, up and pacing, he'd mapped out and named all the constellations - twice. He'd mentally completed the new contagion failsafe program, created a new jogging path through the city and recited pi to the five hundredth decimal place.
He trotted to his lab.
--
Rodney's knee bounced frantically as he sat at his workstation. His heart raced and he could practically feel his blood thrumming through his veins. He couldn't concentrate. Not on the failsafe code, not on Radek's calculations, not on system diagnostics.
Rodney growled and shot to his feet, shoving the stool back with such force that it fell over with a clatter. He didn't get it. He didn't get it! What the hell was going on?
He was worried now, almost frustrated enough to call Sheppard or wake up Carson and tell him to shoot him with an elephant tranquillizer because, really, this was not normal and he should be in a damn coma by now but instead he was walking the length of his lab, obsessively clenching and unclenching his fists, wide awake and hyper as hell and -
Like a speeding train suddenly out of tracks, Rodney crashed.
--
Sheppard hated it when Rodney did his disappearing thing.
"McKay, where are you?" he demanded over the radio as he stalked toward the lab. The other end of the radio was - and had been for the last hour - silent.
They were supposed to meet with Elizabeth at 8 a.m. to go over the new contagion protocols Rodney had been wanting. But the scientist never showed. Their radio calls went unanswered. Carson said Rodney had never returned to the infirmary for a post-mission check. A marine on the nightshift saw him jogging toward his lab, but that had been three hours ago and no one had seen him since.
Sheppard decided to check his lab, then his quarters. Rodney was in one of those places nine times out of 10 when he disappeared, asleep without his radio on or too engrossed in a project to realize what time it was or to notice that he'd left his radio in the mess hall during his last coffee run.
After the lab and Rodney's quarters, Sheppard would forget this little game of hide and seek and go straight for his subcu transmitter. Nine times out of ten. . . but that tenth time was hell.
Sheppard rounded the corner. "Hey, McKay - "
The lab was empty.
Sheppard picked up a stool that had fallen on its side. Rodney's laptop was there, in sleep mode until he tapped the space bar. It showed a page of calculations that abruptly ended mid-equation. Sheppard's heart stuttered a beat. Rodney never stopped mid-equation.
Sheppard tapped his radio, already striding out of the lab and toward the living quarters. "Rodney. Dammit. Answer me."
More silence.
He moved faster.
Rodney didn't answer his door on the first chime. Or - after Sheppard made another attempt at radio contact - the second.
Sheppard overrode the door lock and stepped inside, forcing lightness into his voice as he announced, "If you're in here, you better be dressed, McKay, because neither of us needs that kind of trauma."
The room was dark and Sheppard bumped up the lights, hoping to find Rodney asleep. The bed was empty. Light spilled from underneath the closed door of the bathroom and with it came the faint sounds of the shower.
Sheppard really, really wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but the lump in his throat wouldn't let him.
"Rodney, you there?" he called, moving close to the door. "You missed the eight o'clock with Weir."
Nothing.
"Okay, fair warning. I'm coming in," he said and opened the door.
Rodney was wedged in the space between the toilet and the shower, knees drawn to his chest, head slumped forward, his skin pale against the dark t-shirt and sweatpants he wore. Steam billowed from shower, making the room hot and humid, but Rodney was shivering.
"Shit," Sheppard cursed and thought the water off as he dropped to his knees in front of Rodney. Sheppard touched his shoulder, alarmed when he could feel the cold of Rodney's skin even through the heat of the steam-dampened t-shirt. "Hey, buddy, talk to me."
When Rodney didn't answer - didn't move, didn't even blink - Sheppard shook him lightly and tried his command voice. "McKay. Look at me."
Rodney raised his head slowly, droplets of water quivering on his eyelashes. His gaze was vacant. For the second time that morning, Sheppard's heart stuttered.
He tapped his radio. "Carson, I'm in Rodney's quarters. We've got an emergency. You better get down here."
Sheppard ran a hand through Rodney's hair, across his chest, down his arms and legs. He felt no bumps to his head, no breaks, no blood. Sheppard didn't think he should do anything else until Beckett got there.
Then Rodney whimpered and convulsed in a hard, sharp shiver, and Sheppard jumped.
"Let's get you out of here," he said, tugging Rodney up. He was slack, like a marionette with severed strings, and Sheppard had to sling Rodney's arm over his shoulder and fist the back of his damp t-shirt to keep him steady.
In 10 steps, Rodney stumbled twice.
At the bed, Sheppard maneuvered them until the backs of Rodney's knees bumped the edge of the mattress and he sat down. Sheppard withdrew his hands slowly, watching Rodney droop forward but not fall.
In the full light of the main room Rodney looked even paler, a light sheen of moisture - sweat or mist from the shower - covered his face and arms. His eyes were dilated, more black than blue.
Sheppard riffled through Rodney's dresser, casting anxious glances over his shoulder. By the time he pulled out a clean t-shirt, Rodney was listing heavily to the left. Sheppard dashed forward and, with a hand to his chest, pushed him back upright.
Under his palm, Rodney's heart raced.
Sheppard swore softly, barely restraining himself from calling Beckett and demanding he materialize right god damn now. Instead he steadied Rodney with one hand and stripped his soggy t-shirt off with the other. Shivers wracked Rodney as soon as the air hit his bare skin, and Sheppard hurried to pull the new shirt over his head and thread his arms through the sleeves. When he was done, he snagged the soft Athosian blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it around Rodney's shoulders. The shaking reduced to a tremble but didn't stop.
Except for that whimper in the bathroom, Rodney had remained eerily silent. His gaze seemed fixed on a middle-distant spot on the floor, and Sheppard crouched in front of him, directly in his line of sight. The scientist's eyes were clouded, unfocused, and Sheppard tilted his own head, shifted slightly, determined to make eye contact.
"Hey," he said, placing a hand on Rodney's knee. "Carson will be here any second. Wanna fill me in on what's going on?"
There was no reaction.
Keeping his eyes on Rodney's face, Sheppard wrapped a hand around his wrist, feeling the thrum of his pulse. "I'll be honest, the silent thing doesn't work for you. Rambling, sure. Ranting, definitely. But a quiet McKay is just wrong."
Rodney blinked once, languid, and Sheppard excitedly searched his face for any twitch of recognition. "You in there, buddy? Carson's com -"
And then Carson was suddenly there, out of breath as he nudged Sheppard out of the way with a "S'cuse me, son."
Sheppard slid aside, darting glances between Rodney's face and Beckett's hands as he gathered vitals. "He hasn't responded at all," Sheppard said.
"Looks like shock," Carson said, reaching for Rodney's wrist. "You mentioned the mud earlier, but no injuries or -"
Fingers on Rodney's racing pulse, Carson whistled softly.
Rodney began leaning forward and Sheppard caught him by the shoulder before he could tumble off the bed. "Carson?"
But Carson was already radioing for a gurney.
It would take the med team five minutes to get there. In the meantime Carson finished gathering vitals. At the penlight Rodney winced slightly and drew back.
"Rodney!" Sheppard exclaimed as Carson said, "Come on, lad. Come back, now."
Rodney's eyes were still unfocused, but he blinked, turned his head away from the light and made a protesting sound in the back of his throat.
"Rodney." Carson put away the light and shook his shoulder slightly. "Rodney, do you know where you are?"
Rodney made a grumbling noise and said something, but the words were too low, lost under his breath.
"Rodney," Carson repeated, more loudly this time, "do you know where you are?"
Rodney raised his head and worked to focus his eyes. "'M right here," he said crossly.
Then he passed out.
--
Rodney woke to the beeping of a heart monitor.
Fast beeping.
His heart monitor.
Even as his heart raced, his body felt achy, heavy, saturated. It took effort to pull his eyes open.
"So." Sheppard's voice, to his right. "That mud you swallowed and got coated in? Doc says it was the equivalent of downing a bottle of No-Doze, a 12-pack of Mountain Dew and a couple of pots of that god-awful extra strength coffee you make. Black."
Rodney worked to turn his head. When he did he found not only Sheppard at his bedside but also Teyla and Ronon.
"Hey, buddy," Sheppard said. "How're you feeling?"
"I - " Rodney croaked. He cleared his throat and the beeping heart monitor kicked up the pace. What the hell? The beeping got faster. What, was he going to stroke out here? The beeping got even faster. Rodney struggled to sit up. "Why -
"Rodney, Rodney." Teyla put her hand on his shoulder. "You must calm yourself."
"But - "
"Everything is well," she promised.
The weight of her hand was warm, her words reassuring. Rodney felt his heartbeat slow a tick, and the beeping slowed with it.
"You're still on the caffeine bender from hell," Sheppard told him. "Carson said your body couldn't take it anymore. The engine's still revving but the tires burned out."
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Car metaphors," he croaked. "Ser'ously?"
Sheppard's lips twitched. He retrieved a cup of water with a straw from the bedside table and helped Rodney sit up enough to drink. "The ZPM's charged but the - "
"I get it," Rodney interrupted. He sipped at the water, luxuriating in the cool trickle that soothed his throat until Sheppard took it away. His skin still felt tight, the blood hummed through his veins. His hands trembled, his feet twitched. If he could get up he'd be pacing. It felt like the aftermath of every adrenaline-dosed EpiPen he'd ever had - all wired with no place to go. "How much longer?"
Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon shared a glance. Rodney's heart rate kicked back up.
"A while," Ronon said.
--
Carson didn't want to sedate him. Too great a chance the medication would interact badly with the chemicals left in his system. Carson wanted him calm, wanted his heart rate to stay out of the danger zone, wanted him to sleep, ideally, but it was all up to Rodney.
And how the hell was he supposed to do that, Rodney fumed, listening to the quick beepbeepbeep of the monitor beside him. He couldn't keep himself calm normally, not even on the best of days, when his minions were acting intelligent and the Wraith weren't knocking on their door and Sheppard wasn't riding off on some suicide mission -
Rodney took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Clear blue skies. Clear blue skies. . . .
Beside him the monitor beeped faster.
"Yeah, that's annoying," Sheppard said.
Rodney opened his eyes to find Sheppard slapping off the heart monitor.
"Hey!" Rodney yelped. "I need that."
"I don't think so," Sheppard said.
Rodney frowned. "Déjà vu."
"No ascension this time," Sheppard said, pulling up a chair. "In fact, that's our goal: no ascension."
"'Our goal?' My buzz isn't team project, Colonel." His hands trembled a little harder and he shoved them under his blankets. "Besides, I thought you guys went to get dinner."
Sheppard shrugged. "Grabbed a sandwich and ate it on the way back."
"Teyla and Ronon?"
"They'll be back later. Thought we'd take turns."
Rodney started to cross his arms, then felt the trembling and thought better of it. "I don't need a babysitter," he grumped.
"Okay. I just figured that given the choice between sitting here, bored, going out of your mind listening to the beep, beep, beep -" Sheppard pulled a travel chess set out of his pocket " - and getting your ass beaten at chess, you'd rather - "
"Ha! Like you ever beat me at chess."
Sheppard looked at him.
"Once," Rodney amended.
Sheppard raised an eyebrow.
"Just give me that." Rodney snatched the chess set.
Sheppard smirked. "Knew you'd see it my way."
Rodney slid over so they could set up the board on the bed. Sheppard began laying out the pieces.
"So," Sheppard said, suddenly serious and sounding apologetic, "on the planet, I didn't know - "
"I told you so!" Rodney crowed.
Sheppard looked up, all trace of apology gone. "Well, I didn't know!"
"I said - "
"You were rambling. Ranting. That's how we know when you're fine."
"Well," Rodney huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "I wasn't fine, was I?"
Sheppard looked at Rodney's shaking hands. "No," he said, remorseful. "No you weren't."
Rodney shoved his hands back under the blankets. Sheppard looked away, finished setting up the board.
"I didn't know, either," Rodney admitted after a moment. "Not really." He felt his hands shake, his heart race, every muscle on edge and ready to run-jump-move! even though his body ached, too exhausted, too spent to take the order. "You could have listened on the planet. I could have said something after."
Sheppard twirled a knight in his fingers and nodded slowly. "So."
"Yeah," Rodney said.
"Then we're -
"Good," Rodney finished.
"Good," Sheppard said and set down the knight. "Your move, Bobby Fischer."
"Please!" Rodney scoffed, moving his pawn. He was going to wipe the board with Sheppard. "Fischer was -"
Even without the monitor Rodney could feel his heartbeat kick up. Crap.
"You know," he said, "chess doesn't exactly keep me calm."
"Yeah," Sheppard said. "I just realized that."
--
Teyla wanted to try meditation. It was a nice thought.
But no.
"Teyla, I - "
"Rodney, if you quiet your mind, your body may follow," she said, sitting on the bed across from his. She looked serene. He was ready to jump out of his skin.
She closed her eyes, obviously expecting him to follow. With a sigh, he did.
Without external stimuli to focus on, his mind was free. His thoughts tumbled over each other, spinning, chasing, jumbled in chaos of calculations, plans, memories, doubts, expectations, what-ifs -
His eyes snapped open. "Teyla."
Teyla opened her own eyes and looked at him with a question she didn't have to voice.
"It's not working," he said.
--
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney stared back.
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney stared ba-
"What?" Rodney demanded.
Ronon shrugged from his chair at the end of Rodney's bed. "Sheppard said to help you relax."
Rodney blinked. Even his speeding brain couldn't process that. "What?"
"Helps me." Ronon said. "Might help you."
"Staring at people relaxes you." That was. . . creepy.
"Watching."
"Watching people relaxes you." Nope, still creepy.
"Watching everything," Ronon corrected.
And, okay, given Ronon's background as a runner that was kind of understandable.
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney stared back.
Ronon stared at him.
Rodney star-
"Not helping!"
--
Rodney was just about to call for Carson and beg him to shoot him up with something, anything, possibly a stunner, when Sheppard showed up with a laptop under his arm.
"Yes!" Rodney shouted and reached out, hands grabbing at air. "Gimme, gimme, gimme."
Sheppard held it above Rodney's head, just out of reach. It was about the meanest thing Rodney had ever experienced. "Sheppard!" he barked. "What part of 'gimme' is too hard for you to understand?"
Sheppard grinned and opened his mouth to say something when Carson poked his head around the corner. "Colonel."
Sheppard lowered the laptop. "Sorry, doc."
Carson eyed the computer. "Not work, I hope."
"Not even close," Sheppard said.
"'Not even close?'" Rodney echoed. His hands had stopped shaking about an hour ago, but his heart was still thrumming. He could have gotten lost in work. Work could have helped.
"Work wouldn't help," Sheppard said, as if reading Rodney's mind.
"Would," Rodney insisted.
Sheppard didn't say anything, just pulled up a chair and popped open the laptop.
"Fine," Rodney said, exasperated. "What is this wonderful thing that's so much better than work?"
Sheppard grinned and slid the laptop around so Rodney could see the screen. The opening sequence for the new Doctor Who. Rodney's jaw dropped.
"Got the whole first two seasons," Sheppard said. "It was supposed to be a birthday thing, so you'll have to act surprised when you open these again in a month."
"I am sure Rodney will be gracious," Teyla said, entering with a large bowl of popcorn. Behind her Ronon carried a package of Oreos and drinks.
Rodney nodded. "Gracious," he said. "Yes. Definitely. Press play."
Teyla laughed and Ronon grunted with amusement and Sheppard grinned and set the laptop on a sliding table pulled across the foot of Rodney's bed. They took up spots around him: Teyla and Sheppard in plastic chairs on either side of him, Ronon on the bed beside them, scooted close and angled so they could all see the screen. Sheppard dimmed the lights.
They passed around popcorn and Oreos, and they all popped open (decaffeinated) sodas. When the popcorn bowl ended up back with him, Rodney balanced it on his chest and slouched down, comfortable. Once in a while one of the others would grab a handful of popcorn, brushing Rodney's shoulder or his hand.
Rodney sank lower into the pillows. Around him his friends whispered, moving seamlessly from talk of good popcorn to bad special effects to what they would do with a tardis. Rodney felt dramatically less twitchy. Possibly not twitchy at all. He yawned.
On screen the Doctor was having a long talk with a blond woman. Teyla said something. Sheppard said something. Murmurs, indistinct, the background sound of every team movie night. Common. Comforting. His heart thumped in time to the cadence of their voices, slow and steady. Rodney's eyes fluttered closed.
Finally, with his team around him, he slept.