"... swarming around like bees - stupid, stupid stupid bees!"

Feb 02, 2006 18:52

So here we have it at last, Chapter Seven of Paper Doll Chains. Hope you all enjoy this part, I enjoyed writing it when I finally got past the block...

You may notice the tense change in one of the fragments. This has happened in pervious chapters and is dilberate, let me know if you think it works....

Title: Paper Doll Chains - Chapter Seven
Characters/Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R
Genre: Angst/Drama
Notes: neth_dugan was my amazing beta this time.

(Chapters One, Two, Three, Four, Five and Six)

Summary: If he could just make the perfect chain, then everything would be alright, everything would be like it was.



Paper Doll Chains

Chapter Seven

Rodney wanted to scream, to tear the noise out of his body and into the air. He wanted... he wanted to be able to pull his hands away from the controls, to turn the ship around and head back to Atlantis. To do anything bar what he was doing. To be anywhere that wasn't where he was going.

But he had no control. He had nothing.

He could do nothing but watch himself control the Puddle Jumper out of the gate and across the sky of Staffon.

:::

By the time John caught up with him, Rodney knew it was too late; his free will was fully submerged in the icy cold, so that there was nothing left but the single minded determination to fulfil the goal - return.

“Rodney? Rodney, what are you doing?” John's voice came over the radio, the blip on the monitor showing him in a jumper a little way behind; and closing the distance second by second. Even like this, John was a better flyer than Rodney. Or perhaps somehow the Jumper's themselves knew that Rodney was wrong.

“What does it look like I'm doing Major?” It was Rodney's voice, but not Rodney's tone. Even when he was being arrogant he didn't sound so... so... detached. There was always something in his tone. He only hoped John heard it; heard it and was on his guard.

“Look... why don't we go back to Atlantis, Rodney?” John said slowly, almost cautiously. Rodney would have smiled at this, if he had the will - instead his lips curled into a sneer.

“So what; Carson can find a magic pill and cure me? And then, I'll live happily ever after?”

“I promised remember?”

“There is no happily ever after, just the happily ever now. And I'm done with that being me stuck on Atlantis as your little lap dog, just wanting a treat and a kind smile from you to make my day. I'm not going to be that person anymore,” Rodney told him, plunging the jumper down into a steep dive.

:::

Rodney liked the times he got to play hockey in school. The one sport he understood the rules of, the one sport where he was fast enough, nimble enough and with his skinny little frame he was generally considered unimportant by the other team. Rodney enjoyed it all.

Until the time he was on the opposite side to his worse enemy. Rodney had always been careful to make sure he ended on the same side as the main bully, who might then avoid hitting Rodney too many times.

With Rodney on one side and the bully on the other, he knew that the hockey match was going to end in pain - lots of pain.

When the first stick blow hit him behind the knees, knocking him down into ground and the mud, Rodney realised that he sometimes hated being right all the time.

:::

Dirt had sprayed up on the front of the jumper, wet, brown dirt. It made the still jumper look almost ridiculous and Rodney was relived when he activated the cloak, making it invisible. It couldn’t look pathetic if it couldn’t be seen.

“Rodney.”

It was a growl more than anything else, John’s tense frame stalking towards him. There were shadows behind John, shadows suddenly appearing all around, shadows that became figures, figures that became natives of the planet.

He stood there, unresponsive, uncaring on the outside as the natives came closer and closer.

Rodney had forgotten John, his whole mind taken up with the natives as he screamed and tore at the walls around his mind. Perhaps the natives had forgotten about him as well, deeming him unimportant. If they had, they were mistaken. Without warning, John had swung into action, firing a round from his P-90 into the crowd of natives as he ran, trying to cross the distance between them.

He wouldn’t make it. There were just too many, Rodney realised, swarming around like bees - stupid, stupid stupid bees! Reaching John, reaching him by standing on the dead and the dying.

“No!”

:::

The first time Rodney woke, pale light had just crept though the high window. A thin strip had reached the dirt floor, meaning there was a little light, enough so that he could just see around the cell he had been thrown into.

He couldn’t remember what had happened, where he was.

Then he saw the huddled body of John at the other end of the room, nothing more than a silhouette and suddenly - he could. Rodney crawled over to John, almost reaching him when the room faded from view.

:::

Russia is cold.

Cold and dry. He is alone.

And he is always striving for something, reaching out for that one thing, the one important thing that is always just out of his grasp.

If only he can just remember what the important thing is.

:::

The second time Rodney woke, the pale light had moved across the dirt floor, casting part of John's face into shadow. It touched on the bruising around his cheek, resting on the chest as it slowly rose and then fell. Rodney watched the steady movement of the chest, not wanting to look anywhere else, at the marks that were there because of Rodney; John had been hurt because of Rodney. Hurt and possibly dying, because he. Wouldn't. Wake. Up.

Rodney needed to get John out of here, away and back to Atlantis. Needed to figure out a plan to escape from the cell, to find some weapons, to elude the guards and then get to the jumpers. He just had no idea how to do that. Rodney slowly shifted himself forward, moving closer and closer to John, still watching his chest as it moved up and down. Carefully he reached out, his hand hovering for a few moments over John's own hand before he grasped it.

“Please John,” Rodney pleaded, gripping John's limp hand. “I don't know what to do; I don't know how to help you.” There was no answer and Rodney stared helplessly at the still form.

“I can't do this by myself.”

:::

Time passed; measurable only by the number of times John’s chest rose and fell. He would loose count somewhere around the fifty mark and would simply start again, scratching a line into the dirt.

When the natives came into the room, Rodney had three lines in the dirt, and the running count of thirty breaths in his head. He kept his eyes on John’s chest as if turning away would disrupt the breathing pattern. Even thought he didn’t look at the natives who entered, he knew who would be there, staring at him with a cool look.

The native who haunted his dreams. They came towards the pair, slow and measured footsteps

“Please,” Rodney muttered, feeling tears rolling down his face. “Please, you need to help him.” The hands paused, resting on his arm and he had to fight the urge to pull away, to shudder in disgust. It seemed to rest there for an age before finally pulling away, fingers clicking and pointing towards John’s fallen body.

“Do not worry little one, we will help you if you will help us. You know how.”

:::

Nothing in life is free. That was the one thing his mother had given him, the words drummed into his brain from an early age. His mother and father may feed him and give him a roof over his held, but they would expect something in return, and more, once his intelligence had been discovered.

Nothing in life is free. Everyone wants something, never something for nothing.

:::

“Yes,” Rodney said dully. “I know how.”

:::

“We fixed him little one,” the cooing voice whispered, fingers running through Rodney's hair near his ear. He closed his eyes, unable to look at John any longer. The voice continued, hot breath on his neck. “We have compassion and we reward. He will be fine in a few hours.”

Rodney felt his hand reaching out for John's face, his fingers brushing over John's nose and then his lips which were half open, shallow breaths slowly escaping, hot little wisps of air that danced over the inside of Rodney's fingers. He was going to be fine; he was. Rodney stifled a sob as the fingers slowly twisted gently around his hair.

“Now, little one. Now, we must finish what we begun yes?”

:::

“He has been restored.”

The words bounced around in his head, melting away the cold and replacing it with something new, something not yet defined. Rodney could hear the native whisper the words to John as he pushed Rodney back into the cell, their cell. He has been restored. Little lie. Little truth.

He turned his face against the wall, unable to look at John or the smiling native - always smiling. Rodney could feel the hope flare up in John; foolish hope, fake hope. There was no hope. Hope: A theological virtue in religion. Hope was just as unless as religion.

“Rodney?” The drawled question came with a light touch, nothing more than a couple of fingers on his shoulder. It was all suddenly too much, memories of the time before and the time that was wrong. John touching his shoulder - joking, in concern, reassuring himself that Rodney was still there… even when Rodney was all wrong, John had still touched his shoulder and his neck.

Rodney pulled away, pressing his face against the cool rock, as if he could melt into it.

“They twisted my mind John! And then they twisted it again, pushed things back in that belonged, but in the wrong places and it's all broken up again.”

He could feel John's silent stare, could imagine the look of shock and confusion on his face, even without looking at his face. He needed suddenly, to look, to stare at comforting features that were still the same as they had always been. Rodney turned, bracing his back against the wall and yes - John looked exactly as he had imagined.

“Little pieces,” Rodney said, giving a helpless giggle, bringing his hand up to his head and pointing at it. “Lots of lost little pieces floating in my head.”

:::TBC:::

mcshep, paper

Previous post Next post
Up