Touched by mdime [secret superpower challenge]
Title: Touched
Rating: PG
Category: angst, drama
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Summary: Rodney’s power was both wonderful and dangerous, for himself more than anyone.
Disclaimer: If you had yourself a quantum mirror, perhaps you’d find a reality where SG:A belonged to me...alas, this one isn’t it. *pouts*
There were voices - distorted and faint, as if from far away. Rodney tried to make words out of the rolling murmur, but couldn’t, the sound further muffled by a sharp, incessant beeping.
An incredibly annoying incessant beeping.
He grunted his displeasure, and - oh. Oh, oh, oh. That was pain.
He sucked in a sharp breath, and that hurt even worse, that was agony, and he just couldn’t take it without screaming, or trying to, and -
“Lie still, lad. Don’t try to move.”
Carson?
That was Carson’s voice, and Carson plus pain equaled infirmary, which was bad, but it also equaled Atlantis, which was always a plus.
He tried to focus, tried to open his eyes and see who else was there and what had happened, but God, it hurt.
“Can you open your eyes, Rodney?”
Rodney wanted to laugh, because hadn’t he just tried that, but some of his inner-stubborn must have taken hold because he found, after a moment, a blurry Carson Beckett standing over him.
“There’s a good lad.”
Which was just misdirection, because the “good” doctor was shining a God-awful bright light in eyes which would now be remaining firmly shut, thank you very much, and how was it that his scathing response to such abuse by a supposed medical professional was reduced to a barely audible (even to his own ears), “Mmphfph.”
Carson tried to coax his eyes open again to no avail (stubborn works in many ways), but soon gave it up in favor of more hands-on torture...
Something in Rodney’s chest - or rather, all of his chest - exploded in a sharp and aching pain, spreading and expanding to something almost more than he could bear, so much so that he could hear the call of unconsciousness like a siren.
But somewhere over the pain he heard the doctor’s voice again, twined with several others, and he struggled to hear what was being said. He could hear Elizabeth, and Carson, of course, and a deep rumble that might have been Ronon.
He risked opening his eyes again - just a bit - and was rewarded by a view of the infirmary ceiling. Great. Rodney slowly turned his head to the side (not slowly enough, said the dizziness and rising nausea mockingly) and squinted at the dark shape that came into view but refused to resolve itself.
Sheppard?
The figure moved closer, no clearer but the silhouette more telling, because who but the Colonel could have hair that remained rakish while only backlit?
“Hey. Still awake?”
Rodney would have commented about the idiocy and obviousness of such a statement if only he could talk. Or if he weren’t surprised himself to be fighting the sedatives he was certainly on. He just needed...
His chest burned but he needed...
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t move, Rodney. Stay still!”
...Sheppard’s hands, holding him down gently, and when he felt them he felt the pain but he also felt more, he felt everything, and he remembered...
“McKay, run!”
“But -”
“Rodney!”
“Right. Running, then.”
And he did, or as well as one could with a twisted ankle on unfamiliar, heavily vegetated terrain in the thin light cast by the waning moons.
Rodney ran, stumbling along as fast as possible, stopping only to gauge his bearings and listen for sounds of his team - or their pursuers. He had to get to the stargate and get help. Ronon and Teyla were behind him somewhere, and Sheppard, God only knew where Sheppard was. They hadn’t been in contact with him since before everything went south...didn’t even know if Sheppard was aware that everything had gone south.
He wished for his radio, for his Ancient scanner or data pad or even a powerbar. The ferocity with which he wished for his gun had ceased to be surprising many ‘friendly natives turn hostile’ planets ago.
He had none of that, though, nothing but himself and knowing that his team - his friends - needed him to get to the ‘gate. And he would. He just needed to catch his breath.
After a moment - too short, but he didn’t dare take more - Rodney pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against and staggered towards where the ‘gate should be. Only a few steps later he stopped, brought short by a noise to his left.
He crouched in a defensive position, barely holding back the scream from the pain in his ankle. He didn’t see anything, not that he could see much, and nothing jumped out to attack.
An animal, he told himself. You’re wasting time.
But once Rodney had regained his feet, he found himself walking towards where the sound had come from, rather than away. Away from the stargate, rather than towards it.
And then he found Sheppard.
Dying.
Dying because how could he be anything else, when the man’s blood was soaking his shirt and the ground beneath him, when he was pale and unresponsive and Rodney could hear the breath stuttering in his chest. Dying because Rodney had nothing: no med-kit, no radio to call for one, no way to get help. Dying, and no chance of survival. No hope.
Nothing but Rodney. Nothing but him, and oh, God, he’d been reaching out to Sheppard’s chest without realizing it. Reaching out with intent, and he hadn’t done that in years, not since Jeannie. He’d never wanted to.
He wanted to now, though. He needed to, because he needed Sheppard. Alive and whole and protecting Atlantis, not bleeding out on the forest floor of an alien planet.
He could heal John’s wounds, just like he’d healed his sister’s bruises, by taking them on himself. Taking them all.
Rodney touched John’s face with shaking hands, free to touch only as the man lay dying. Leaning in he rested his forehead against John’s for a moment before brushing their lips together.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but you have to live, John. Please, please live.”
Then Rodney touched, laid his hands upon the gaping wounds in John’s chest, closing his eyes and letting the pain in as he let the healing out, taking in the bits of John’s consciousness and memory as he did so, more certain than ever that he was right to do this. To give this.
As his world turned to a haze of pain, as his body was ripped apart and his strength gave out, Rodney held on...
And now John was sitting next to him in Atlantis. He’d done it. He’d saved him. Sheppard was alive, alive and whole and not dead. Not dead.
Rodney wasn’t dead, either, and while he didn’t understand that he wasn’t going to question it, though he could see weeks of infirmary care stretching out before him.
“Rodney? Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He could sleep now.
He could let go.
John would be there.
*****
a/n: No, the story doesn’t end there. The flashfic deadline, however, makes this the temporary ending. I will expand upon this at some point, because there’s a lot left to say (even though I think this part stands by itself well, unanswered questions notwithstanding).
Rating: PG
Category: angst, drama
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Summary: Rodney’s power was both wonderful and dangerous, for himself more than anyone.
Disclaimer: If you had yourself a quantum mirror, perhaps you’d find a reality where SG:A belonged to me...alas, this one isn’t it. *pouts*
There were voices - distorted and faint, as if from far away. Rodney tried to make words out of the rolling murmur, but couldn’t, the sound further muffled by a sharp, incessant beeping.
An incredibly annoying incessant beeping.
He grunted his displeasure, and - oh. Oh, oh, oh. That was pain.
He sucked in a sharp breath, and that hurt even worse, that was agony, and he just couldn’t take it without screaming, or trying to, and -
“Lie still, lad. Don’t try to move.”
Carson?
That was Carson’s voice, and Carson plus pain equaled infirmary, which was bad, but it also equaled Atlantis, which was always a plus.
He tried to focus, tried to open his eyes and see who else was there and what had happened, but God, it hurt.
“Can you open your eyes, Rodney?”
Rodney wanted to laugh, because hadn’t he just tried that, but some of his inner-stubborn must have taken hold because he found, after a moment, a blurry Carson Beckett standing over him.
“There’s a good lad.”
Which was just misdirection, because the “good” doctor was shining a God-awful bright light in eyes which would now be remaining firmly shut, thank you very much, and how was it that his scathing response to such abuse by a supposed medical professional was reduced to a barely audible (even to his own ears), “Mmphfph.”
Carson tried to coax his eyes open again to no avail (stubborn works in many ways), but soon gave it up in favor of more hands-on torture...
Something in Rodney’s chest - or rather, all of his chest - exploded in a sharp and aching pain, spreading and expanding to something almost more than he could bear, so much so that he could hear the call of unconsciousness like a siren.
But somewhere over the pain he heard the doctor’s voice again, twined with several others, and he struggled to hear what was being said. He could hear Elizabeth, and Carson, of course, and a deep rumble that might have been Ronon.
He risked opening his eyes again - just a bit - and was rewarded by a view of the infirmary ceiling. Great. Rodney slowly turned his head to the side (not slowly enough, said the dizziness and rising nausea mockingly) and squinted at the dark shape that came into view but refused to resolve itself.
Sheppard?
The figure moved closer, no clearer but the silhouette more telling, because who but the Colonel could have hair that remained rakish while only backlit?
“Hey. Still awake?”
Rodney would have commented about the idiocy and obviousness of such a statement if only he could talk. Or if he weren’t surprised himself to be fighting the sedatives he was certainly on. He just needed...
His chest burned but he needed...
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t move, Rodney. Stay still!”
...Sheppard’s hands, holding him down gently, and when he felt them he felt the pain but he also felt more, he felt everything, and he remembered...
“McKay, run!”
“But -”
“Rodney!”
“Right. Running, then.”
And he did, or as well as one could with a twisted ankle on unfamiliar, heavily vegetated terrain in the thin light cast by the waning moons.
Rodney ran, stumbling along as fast as possible, stopping only to gauge his bearings and listen for sounds of his team - or their pursuers. He had to get to the stargate and get help. Ronon and Teyla were behind him somewhere, and Sheppard, God only knew where Sheppard was. They hadn’t been in contact with him since before everything went south...didn’t even know if Sheppard was aware that everything had gone south.
He wished for his radio, for his Ancient scanner or data pad or even a powerbar. The ferocity with which he wished for his gun had ceased to be surprising many ‘friendly natives turn hostile’ planets ago.
He had none of that, though, nothing but himself and knowing that his team - his friends - needed him to get to the ‘gate. And he would. He just needed to catch his breath.
After a moment - too short, but he didn’t dare take more - Rodney pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against and staggered towards where the ‘gate should be. Only a few steps later he stopped, brought short by a noise to his left.
He crouched in a defensive position, barely holding back the scream from the pain in his ankle. He didn’t see anything, not that he could see much, and nothing jumped out to attack.
An animal, he told himself. You’re wasting time.
But once Rodney had regained his feet, he found himself walking towards where the sound had come from, rather than away. Away from the stargate, rather than towards it.
And then he found Sheppard.
Dying.
Dying because how could he be anything else, when the man’s blood was soaking his shirt and the ground beneath him, when he was pale and unresponsive and Rodney could hear the breath stuttering in his chest. Dying because Rodney had nothing: no med-kit, no radio to call for one, no way to get help. Dying, and no chance of survival. No hope.
Nothing but Rodney. Nothing but him, and oh, God, he’d been reaching out to Sheppard’s chest without realizing it. Reaching out with intent, and he hadn’t done that in years, not since Jeannie. He’d never wanted to.
He wanted to now, though. He needed to, because he needed Sheppard. Alive and whole and protecting Atlantis, not bleeding out on the forest floor of an alien planet.
He could heal John’s wounds, just like he’d healed his sister’s bruises, by taking them on himself. Taking them all.
Rodney touched John’s face with shaking hands, free to touch only as the man lay dying. Leaning in he rested his forehead against John’s for a moment before brushing their lips together.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but you have to live, John. Please, please live.”
Then Rodney touched, laid his hands upon the gaping wounds in John’s chest, closing his eyes and letting the pain in as he let the healing out, taking in the bits of John’s consciousness and memory as he did so, more certain than ever that he was right to do this. To give this.
As his world turned to a haze of pain, as his body was ripped apart and his strength gave out, Rodney held on...
And now John was sitting next to him in Atlantis. He’d done it. He’d saved him. Sheppard was alive, alive and whole and not dead. Not dead.
Rodney wasn’t dead, either, and while he didn’t understand that he wasn’t going to question it, though he could see weeks of infirmary care stretching out before him.
“Rodney? Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He could sleep now.
He could let go.
John would be there.
*****
a/n: No, the story doesn’t end there. The flashfic deadline, however, makes this the temporary ending. I will expand upon this at some point, because there’s a lot left to say (even though I think this part stands by itself well, unanswered questions notwithstanding).