Peg² (12/?)
Title: Square Peg, or, Peg² (Pegasus Squared) [A sequel to Full Circle, set in the Epic Crossover ‘Verse]
Chapter: 12 of ?
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~1400 [25k+ total so far]
Fandom(s): Leverage, Psych, SG:A
Pairing(s): Eliot/Shawn, McShep preslash
Rating: PG-13
General Warnings: language, violence, torture, kid!fic, un-beta’d
Beta: None, so please point out errors (or, you know, volunteer).
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A (as well as any other television show, movie or book in existence) do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: Ok, so, apparently 'I will post later this week' translates as 'I will realize I've written myself into a corner and have managed to somehow kill off Rodney without realizing it and since that doesn't bode well for Rodney since he's not exactly Daniel and renowned for coming back from the dead, and seeing as how this is supposed to be McShep and you can't have that without the Mc and this isn't a deathfic, I've decided to cut pretty much everything I had written from chapter 11 on and rewrite and replot...' So, yeah. And a reminder: All of my medical knowledge is completely fictitious and made up.
Summary: John's still stuck in the infirmary, and has some visitors.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve
Nobody Likes Being Stuck in the Infirmary
--JOHN--
After a day, Carson took him off the good drugs. On the morphine blend, John’s nightmares--daymares--had been reliving hell, over and over, but the relief from the fucking blinding agony radiating from his right thigh had almost made up for the mental torture. As soon as the last of the drugs wore off, John broke into a cold sweat and clenched his jaw against the whimpers that wanted to escape. He’d signed off on Carson’s policy about being sparing with the earth-based drugs when Carson came back as CMO--you never knew what was going to happen in Pegasus, or when you might be cut off from resupply for two years (again)--but he really, really hated that fucking policy right now and wished he’d never signed off on the damn thing.
His system had metabolized the last of the cocktail at 02:23 (according to the glaringly bright digital clock someone had mounted on the wall of the infirmary) and the sudden onset of the pain had yanked him out of the restless doze he’d been slipping in and out of since Carson had first drugged him up. It’d been around two hours (two hours, twelve minutes and 36, 37, 38 seconds; not that he was keeping track or anything) since he’d woken up. The infirmary was quiet except for the steady beeping of Rodney’s heart monitor (or brain monitor--it could be a high-tech thermometer for all he knew. John had no clue what most of the machines in the infirmary were supposed to keep track of). The night-shift doctor was probably holed up in Carson’s office doing paperwork, and the night-shift nurses were most likely inventorying the storerooms. (Carson was a bear when it came to knowing what medical supplies were on hand--a policy John thoroughly approved of and regularly sent the Marines to help with when they were done with the armory. The Marines weren‘t as fond of the policy.) Now, normally John had nothing against a little good-natured complaining and annoying the infirmary staff, but god, seeing as how Rodney was in a fucking coma right next to him… Complaining would divert their attention, and the faster Rodney got better, the less likely they all were to die. Besides, John felt like he fucking deserved the pain for not getting Rodney out in time. That was his job, goddammit, to protect Rodney--and all the other non-combatants--and he’d failed. Major fucking big time, he’d failed.
So John lay in his hospital bed next to Rodney’s, stoically enduring the pain that he rightfully deserved, with only the constant beeping from the machines surrounding Rodney to keep him company. The beeping had the potential to be the most annoying thing he’d ever heard, except for the fact that it meant Rodney was still alive. The silence between each beep was what grated on his nerves more than anything, because he spent it waiting for the next one, and hoping to god that it’d sound when the time for it came. As time wore on, John grew to dread the silence between the beeps from Rodney’s machines enough to begin talking to fill it up. His voice was hoarse with thirst and kept cracking whenever the pain in his leg spiked (he kept twitching, trying to move in a way that would ease the pain, even though all it did was make it spike, but he couldn’t seem to make his body stop doing it), but the only one around to hear was Rodney, and he wasn’t complaining about it.
John passed the rest of the abnormally long (to a body once again accustomed to Earth’s 24 hour days, as much as he might deny it) Atlantis night talking at Rodney, with intermittent breaks when the night-shift doctor made her rounds. She’d given him water to ease his throat, and explained his injuries to him--not that he’d been paying attention to her jargon. Carson would dumb it down for him later, regardless, so he just smiled and nodded until she left him alone with Rodney again and he resumed his one-sided conversation. When morning finally arrived and the infirmary went back to its normal bustling frenzy, he’d talked himself to a standstill, his throat rasping in a way that had nothing to do with trauma from the blast. He finished his litany of complaining, remembrances and bad jokes with an entreaty: “Come on, Rodney, wake up,” he pleaded quietly as the first of the morning shift started coming through the doors. “We can’t do this without you--you’re the genius, remember? Smartest man in two galaxies. Wake up before we blow ourselves up, will you?”
John’s first visitor was Carson, who took one look at the monitors hooked up to him before grabbing the chart attached to the foot of John’s bed and glaring at it like it’d personally offended him, and then launched into a mild rant at John about how enduring excessive pain could slow down his recovery. John tried to stare Carson down, but Carson just ignored him and injected something into the port in John’s IV. John relaxed muscles he didn’t know he’d tensed as the warm bliss spread through his veins, and drifted off to sleep as soon as the pain eased a little.
He wasn’t awake for his second visitation, but when he woke up again, he found a hand-drawn card with a grinning stick figure wearing a cowboy hat and holding a surprisingly accurately drawn P-90. The note inside was written in Jesse’s strangely neat handwriting (he didn’t know where that had come from, his own handwriting was barely legible to his own eyes, most of the time) and just said Get better soon, Dad. Love Jesse. Teyla and Torren and Ronon had all added their own marks, in their own languages, and John felt a wash of something go through him that almost overpowered the drugs. It felt good, even as he ignored it. Shawn had signed it too, which was weird, but kinda nice. Looked like Shawn had gotten stuck with babysitting duty--though it probably felt the other way around to Jesse. John grinned at the thought, and tucked the card under his pillow for safekeeping before drifting back to sleep.
The next visitor was Lorne, who stopped by when he woke up again, this time around lunch time (not that the infirmary staff would give John anything to eat, citing something about nutrients and drugs and stomachs that he glazed over during), long enough to drop off a tablet filled with paperwork and shoot John a smug grin and an innocent, “Just in case you get bored, sir, you could always get ahead on your paperwork.” Asshole. Over half of the paperwork on the tablet was Lorne’s, it looked like. Though John guessed it was fair enough, considering how much paperwork he’d pushed off on Lorne over the years--but John had always had a valid excuse, like alien invasion. Lorne was just being a jerk. John scowled at his rapidly retreating back, then eyed the tablet with a muted hatred, before opening the first file in the queue. He was already in agony, so what was a little more?
The last visitor of the day, though, wasn’t for John. Morris stopped by to see Rodney, and managed to ignore John thoroughly enough for most of the visit that he felt like he wasn’t even there--an impression the drugs didn’t do anything to dispel, making the world look fuzzy and only half corporeal--even though his bed was less than five feet away from where Morris was sitting hunched over by Rodney‘s bed, a hangdog expression on his face. John wasn’t quite sure what to make of being ignored so totally, but the new cocktail Carson had him on made it hard to stay lucid long enough to address it even if he wanted to. Morris did make a point to call him “Sir” and ask him how he was ‘getting on’ when he left, though, so maybe the cocktail had more to do with his impression of being ignored than reality did. Morris’s visit might not have been the last of the day, but it was the last one that John was even remotely conscious for. After Morris left, Carson stopped by long enough to inject something new into John’s IV port, and he went out like a light.
ϟ | Thirteen -->
Chapter: 12 of ?
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~1400 [25k+ total so far]
Fandom(s): Leverage, Psych, SG:A
Pairing(s): Eliot/Shawn, McShep preslash
Rating: PG-13
General Warnings: language, violence, torture, kid!fic, un-beta’d
Beta: None, so please point out errors (or, you know, volunteer).
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A (as well as any other television show, movie or book in existence) do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: Ok, so, apparently 'I will post later this week' translates as 'I will realize I've written myself into a corner and have managed to somehow kill off Rodney without realizing it and since that doesn't bode well for Rodney since he's not exactly Daniel and renowned for coming back from the dead, and seeing as how this is supposed to be McShep and you can't have that without the Mc and this isn't a deathfic, I've decided to cut pretty much everything I had written from chapter 11 on and rewrite and replot...' So, yeah. And a reminder: All of my medical knowledge is completely fictitious and made up.
Summary: John's still stuck in the infirmary, and has some visitors.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve
Nobody Likes Being Stuck in the Infirmary
--JOHN--
After a day, Carson took him off the good drugs. On the morphine blend, John’s nightmares--daymares--had been reliving hell, over and over, but the relief from the fucking blinding agony radiating from his right thigh had almost made up for the mental torture. As soon as the last of the drugs wore off, John broke into a cold sweat and clenched his jaw against the whimpers that wanted to escape. He’d signed off on Carson’s policy about being sparing with the earth-based drugs when Carson came back as CMO--you never knew what was going to happen in Pegasus, or when you might be cut off from resupply for two years (again)--but he really, really hated that fucking policy right now and wished he’d never signed off on the damn thing.
His system had metabolized the last of the cocktail at 02:23 (according to the glaringly bright digital clock someone had mounted on the wall of the infirmary) and the sudden onset of the pain had yanked him out of the restless doze he’d been slipping in and out of since Carson had first drugged him up. It’d been around two hours (two hours, twelve minutes and 36, 37, 38 seconds; not that he was keeping track or anything) since he’d woken up. The infirmary was quiet except for the steady beeping of Rodney’s heart monitor (or brain monitor--it could be a high-tech thermometer for all he knew. John had no clue what most of the machines in the infirmary were supposed to keep track of). The night-shift doctor was probably holed up in Carson’s office doing paperwork, and the night-shift nurses were most likely inventorying the storerooms. (Carson was a bear when it came to knowing what medical supplies were on hand--a policy John thoroughly approved of and regularly sent the Marines to help with when they were done with the armory. The Marines weren‘t as fond of the policy.) Now, normally John had nothing against a little good-natured complaining and annoying the infirmary staff, but god, seeing as how Rodney was in a fucking coma right next to him… Complaining would divert their attention, and the faster Rodney got better, the less likely they all were to die. Besides, John felt like he fucking deserved the pain for not getting Rodney out in time. That was his job, goddammit, to protect Rodney--and all the other non-combatants--and he’d failed. Major fucking big time, he’d failed.
So John lay in his hospital bed next to Rodney’s, stoically enduring the pain that he rightfully deserved, with only the constant beeping from the machines surrounding Rodney to keep him company. The beeping had the potential to be the most annoying thing he’d ever heard, except for the fact that it meant Rodney was still alive. The silence between each beep was what grated on his nerves more than anything, because he spent it waiting for the next one, and hoping to god that it’d sound when the time for it came. As time wore on, John grew to dread the silence between the beeps from Rodney’s machines enough to begin talking to fill it up. His voice was hoarse with thirst and kept cracking whenever the pain in his leg spiked (he kept twitching, trying to move in a way that would ease the pain, even though all it did was make it spike, but he couldn’t seem to make his body stop doing it), but the only one around to hear was Rodney, and he wasn’t complaining about it.
John passed the rest of the abnormally long (to a body once again accustomed to Earth’s 24 hour days, as much as he might deny it) Atlantis night talking at Rodney, with intermittent breaks when the night-shift doctor made her rounds. She’d given him water to ease his throat, and explained his injuries to him--not that he’d been paying attention to her jargon. Carson would dumb it down for him later, regardless, so he just smiled and nodded until she left him alone with Rodney again and he resumed his one-sided conversation. When morning finally arrived and the infirmary went back to its normal bustling frenzy, he’d talked himself to a standstill, his throat rasping in a way that had nothing to do with trauma from the blast. He finished his litany of complaining, remembrances and bad jokes with an entreaty: “Come on, Rodney, wake up,” he pleaded quietly as the first of the morning shift started coming through the doors. “We can’t do this without you--you’re the genius, remember? Smartest man in two galaxies. Wake up before we blow ourselves up, will you?”
John’s first visitor was Carson, who took one look at the monitors hooked up to him before grabbing the chart attached to the foot of John’s bed and glaring at it like it’d personally offended him, and then launched into a mild rant at John about how enduring excessive pain could slow down his recovery. John tried to stare Carson down, but Carson just ignored him and injected something into the port in John’s IV. John relaxed muscles he didn’t know he’d tensed as the warm bliss spread through his veins, and drifted off to sleep as soon as the pain eased a little.
He wasn’t awake for his second visitation, but when he woke up again, he found a hand-drawn card with a grinning stick figure wearing a cowboy hat and holding a surprisingly accurately drawn P-90. The note inside was written in Jesse’s strangely neat handwriting (he didn’t know where that had come from, his own handwriting was barely legible to his own eyes, most of the time) and just said Get better soon, Dad. Love Jesse. Teyla and Torren and Ronon had all added their own marks, in their own languages, and John felt a wash of something go through him that almost overpowered the drugs. It felt good, even as he ignored it. Shawn had signed it too, which was weird, but kinda nice. Looked like Shawn had gotten stuck with babysitting duty--though it probably felt the other way around to Jesse. John grinned at the thought, and tucked the card under his pillow for safekeeping before drifting back to sleep.
The next visitor was Lorne, who stopped by when he woke up again, this time around lunch time (not that the infirmary staff would give John anything to eat, citing something about nutrients and drugs and stomachs that he glazed over during), long enough to drop off a tablet filled with paperwork and shoot John a smug grin and an innocent, “Just in case you get bored, sir, you could always get ahead on your paperwork.” Asshole. Over half of the paperwork on the tablet was Lorne’s, it looked like. Though John guessed it was fair enough, considering how much paperwork he’d pushed off on Lorne over the years--but John had always had a valid excuse, like alien invasion. Lorne was just being a jerk. John scowled at his rapidly retreating back, then eyed the tablet with a muted hatred, before opening the first file in the queue. He was already in agony, so what was a little more?
The last visitor of the day, though, wasn’t for John. Morris stopped by to see Rodney, and managed to ignore John thoroughly enough for most of the visit that he felt like he wasn’t even there--an impression the drugs didn’t do anything to dispel, making the world look fuzzy and only half corporeal--even though his bed was less than five feet away from where Morris was sitting hunched over by Rodney‘s bed, a hangdog expression on his face. John wasn’t quite sure what to make of being ignored so totally, but the new cocktail Carson had him on made it hard to stay lucid long enough to address it even if he wanted to. Morris did make a point to call him “Sir” and ask him how he was ‘getting on’ when he left, though, so maybe the cocktail had more to do with his impression of being ignored than reality did. Morris’s visit might not have been the last of the day, but it was the last one that John was even remotely conscious for. After Morris left, Carson stopped by long enough to inject something new into John’s IV port, and he went out like a light.
ϟ | Thirteen -->