IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH BY linziday [LFWS #1 ROUND 14]
Title: In Sickness and In Health
Author: linziday
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: None
Prompt for the Round: The story must have ONE (and only one) of the following elements as the main cause of hurt: earth, water, fire OR air. At least two members of the team must be hurt.
IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH by linziday
John wakes to it, his throat dry and sticky as if he’d slept in the desert rather than the warm, humid team tent.
He ignores it during the trek back to the gate and through the quick debrief with Elizabeth (“Nice people. Good festival. No shooting.”). He ignores it as they head to the infirmary, as he and Rodney debate whether the village elder did or didn’t resemble the Penguin from Batman.
Then the back of John’s throat prickles and he coughs, hard. Which he also would have ignored if Carson hadn’t, at that moment, started his post mission exam.
“What’s this now, lad?” Carson asks, frowning.
John waves away the concern. “Just a tickle.”
“Hmm.” Carson’s eyes flick to John’s, assessing, then away as he orders blood samples.
“Carson, I’m - ”
“‘Fine,’ I know. Humor me,” Carson says and pats his knee kindly before moving to Teyla.
From the next bed, Rodney glares.
“We shared a tent,” Rodney informs him.
“Yes, I know, I was there.”
“We shared air,” Rodney emphasizes. “And you’re sick.”
“I’m not sick,” John declares, then swallows hard to stop a cough.
But Rodney’s observant today, or maybe mildly psychic, because he points at John and makes a declaration of his own. “Sick!” If it’s possible, Rodney’s glare gets more. . . glaring. “I will never forgive you if you’ve given me the plague.”
John rolls his eyes. “I don’t have the plague. I haven’t given anyone the plague.” But a few beds away, Ronon coughs hard. Inwardly, John groans.
He shouts to Ronon, “It’s not the plague!”
--
It’s not the plague.
It is, however, the Pegasus version of the flu. Which is nothing at all like the plague but gets the team sent to isolation anyway.
“Just for a wee bit. Until you’re no longer contagious,” Carson says, mask muffling his words.
Everyone’s temperature is up a bit, but Teyla’s the most, her face flushed with it. John and Ronon cough in something like a rhythm, a rough and ragged back-and-forth that makes John’s chest ache. Rodney’s so far the healthiest, just a minor fever and headache.
Carson leaves, telling them to rest, to call if they need anything in the night.
--
“I do not feel well,” Teyla says an hour later. With a small twinge of panic, John realizes she’s a little green.
They’d been warned about nausea. But while it’s one kind of awful for him to vomit, there’s something extra special horrific about watching someone else do it. Watching Teyla do it.
Rodney and Ronon look just as alarmed.
“Um,” Rodney says after a moment. And hands Teyla an emesis basin.
“Beckett?” Ronon asks.
“No. It will pass.” She holds tight to the basin anyway.
Rodney and Ronon exchange whispered words. So John is suspicious when they appear oh-so-casually beside his bed.
“Not it,” Rodney announces quietly.
“Me neither,” Ronon agrees.
His inner 12-year-old must’ve already guessed their game because John’s somehow not surprised when Rodney explains, “You hold her hair back.”
--
Ronon shrugs off gunshot wounds. Dizziness, however, has him flat on his back, gripping the sides of his bed as if it’s a lifeboat about to capsize.
Teyla fell asleep a while ago, eyes drifting shut to the rise and fall of their voices. Talking was the best comfort they could offer, and it seemed to work. It’s not working for Ronon.
Rodney frowns. “Maybe we should call Carson?”
“No,” Ronon growls.
Rodney looks doubtful but John understands. Carson means drugs.
“Just go away,” Ronon squeezes his eyes shut. “Go!”
Rodney says “Pfft” and pulls up a chair.
“As someone with childhood inner ear problems, I can tell you being alone makes it worse. You feel untethered, turning and spinning and - ”
“McKay!” Ronon grips the bed harder.
“Sorry, sorry.” Rodney looks scared for a second. Then resolute. He puts his hand on Ronon’s shoulder. “This’ll ground you. Just don’t. . . hit me.”
John considers pulling Rodney away, but Ronon’s gradually loosening his grip on the bed. Soon his breathing evens out.
“Not bad,” John whispers.
Rodney just asks, “Is it hot in here?”
--
John wakes at 3 a.m. to Rodney pacing woozily.
“When you think about it,” Rodney says, looking at John with fever-bright eyes, “it’s a miracle this doesn’t happen more. All the germs floating in the air. In the air we breathe.”
John blocks Rodney’s path - palms up, placating, but solidly there so Rodney has to stop. “Hey, buddy, how about grabbing some sleep?”
“Already tried.” Rodney’s voice is small, weary.
Hand on his back, John moves him toward bed. “Tried?”
“Too hot to sleep. Too cold. Both.”
John settles him on the bed and contemplates calling Carson. But Rodney’s coherent, just tired and a little -
Rodney kicks off the blanket with a whine and immediately starts shivering.
- uncomfortable.
John fetches a wet cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, Rodney’s sprawled unhappily on his stomach, covers bunched at the foot of the bed. He jerks with surprise when John lays the cool cloth on the back of his neck, then relaxes with a sigh. John pulls up the sheet, covering Rodney to his waist.
“Thanks,” Rodney murmurs, eyes fluttering shut.
“Sure.” John pads back to bed. By the time he gets there, Rodney’s snoring softly.
John pulls up his own covers. Then he kicks them away.
--
The voices are indistinct, hazy.
“Sheppard - ”
“. . . nightmare. . . .”
“The fever -”
With effort, he opens his eyes. He’s surrounded - Teyla on one side, carding her hands through his hair; Rodney on the other, eyes wide and worried; Ronon at the foot of the bed, hand on John’s ankle.
His eyes slide closed again. No new nightmares come.
--
In the morning they’re all still sick, but no one’s thrown up, pitched off a bed in a fit of vertigo or collapsed from exhaustion.
“You didn’t call me,” Carson says. “How was your night?”
John glances at his team. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.
Author: linziday
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: None
Prompt for the Round: The story must have ONE (and only one) of the following elements as the main cause of hurt: earth, water, fire OR air. At least two members of the team must be hurt.
IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH by linziday
John wakes to it, his throat dry and sticky as if he’d slept in the desert rather than the warm, humid team tent.
He ignores it during the trek back to the gate and through the quick debrief with Elizabeth (“Nice people. Good festival. No shooting.”). He ignores it as they head to the infirmary, as he and Rodney debate whether the village elder did or didn’t resemble the Penguin from Batman.
Then the back of John’s throat prickles and he coughs, hard. Which he also would have ignored if Carson hadn’t, at that moment, started his post mission exam.
“What’s this now, lad?” Carson asks, frowning.
John waves away the concern. “Just a tickle.”
“Hmm.” Carson’s eyes flick to John’s, assessing, then away as he orders blood samples.
“Carson, I’m - ”
“‘Fine,’ I know. Humor me,” Carson says and pats his knee kindly before moving to Teyla.
From the next bed, Rodney glares.
“We shared a tent,” Rodney informs him.
“Yes, I know, I was there.”
“We shared air,” Rodney emphasizes. “And you’re sick.”
“I’m not sick,” John declares, then swallows hard to stop a cough.
But Rodney’s observant today, or maybe mildly psychic, because he points at John and makes a declaration of his own. “Sick!” If it’s possible, Rodney’s glare gets more. . . glaring. “I will never forgive you if you’ve given me the plague.”
John rolls his eyes. “I don’t have the plague. I haven’t given anyone the plague.” But a few beds away, Ronon coughs hard. Inwardly, John groans.
He shouts to Ronon, “It’s not the plague!”
--
It’s not the plague.
It is, however, the Pegasus version of the flu. Which is nothing at all like the plague but gets the team sent to isolation anyway.
“Just for a wee bit. Until you’re no longer contagious,” Carson says, mask muffling his words.
Everyone’s temperature is up a bit, but Teyla’s the most, her face flushed with it. John and Ronon cough in something like a rhythm, a rough and ragged back-and-forth that makes John’s chest ache. Rodney’s so far the healthiest, just a minor fever and headache.
Carson leaves, telling them to rest, to call if they need anything in the night.
--
“I do not feel well,” Teyla says an hour later. With a small twinge of panic, John realizes she’s a little green.
They’d been warned about nausea. But while it’s one kind of awful for him to vomit, there’s something extra special horrific about watching someone else do it. Watching Teyla do it.
Rodney and Ronon look just as alarmed.
“Um,” Rodney says after a moment. And hands Teyla an emesis basin.
“Beckett?” Ronon asks.
“No. It will pass.” She holds tight to the basin anyway.
Rodney and Ronon exchange whispered words. So John is suspicious when they appear oh-so-casually beside his bed.
“Not it,” Rodney announces quietly.
“Me neither,” Ronon agrees.
His inner 12-year-old must’ve already guessed their game because John’s somehow not surprised when Rodney explains, “You hold her hair back.”
--
Ronon shrugs off gunshot wounds. Dizziness, however, has him flat on his back, gripping the sides of his bed as if it’s a lifeboat about to capsize.
Teyla fell asleep a while ago, eyes drifting shut to the rise and fall of their voices. Talking was the best comfort they could offer, and it seemed to work. It’s not working for Ronon.
Rodney frowns. “Maybe we should call Carson?”
“No,” Ronon growls.
Rodney looks doubtful but John understands. Carson means drugs.
“Just go away,” Ronon squeezes his eyes shut. “Go!”
Rodney says “Pfft” and pulls up a chair.
“As someone with childhood inner ear problems, I can tell you being alone makes it worse. You feel untethered, turning and spinning and - ”
“McKay!” Ronon grips the bed harder.
“Sorry, sorry.” Rodney looks scared for a second. Then resolute. He puts his hand on Ronon’s shoulder. “This’ll ground you. Just don’t. . . hit me.”
John considers pulling Rodney away, but Ronon’s gradually loosening his grip on the bed. Soon his breathing evens out.
“Not bad,” John whispers.
Rodney just asks, “Is it hot in here?”
--
John wakes at 3 a.m. to Rodney pacing woozily.
“When you think about it,” Rodney says, looking at John with fever-bright eyes, “it’s a miracle this doesn’t happen more. All the germs floating in the air. In the air we breathe.”
John blocks Rodney’s path - palms up, placating, but solidly there so Rodney has to stop. “Hey, buddy, how about grabbing some sleep?”
“Already tried.” Rodney’s voice is small, weary.
Hand on his back, John moves him toward bed. “Tried?”
“Too hot to sleep. Too cold. Both.”
John settles him on the bed and contemplates calling Carson. But Rodney’s coherent, just tired and a little -
Rodney kicks off the blanket with a whine and immediately starts shivering.
- uncomfortable.
John fetches a wet cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, Rodney’s sprawled unhappily on his stomach, covers bunched at the foot of the bed. He jerks with surprise when John lays the cool cloth on the back of his neck, then relaxes with a sigh. John pulls up the sheet, covering Rodney to his waist.
“Thanks,” Rodney murmurs, eyes fluttering shut.
“Sure.” John pads back to bed. By the time he gets there, Rodney’s snoring softly.
John pulls up his own covers. Then he kicks them away.
--
The voices are indistinct, hazy.
“Sheppard - ”
“. . . nightmare. . . .”
“The fever -”
With effort, he opens his eyes. He’s surrounded - Teyla on one side, carding her hands through his hair; Rodney on the other, eyes wide and worried; Ronon at the foot of the bed, hand on John’s ankle.
His eyes slide closed again. No new nightmares come.
--
In the morning they’re all still sick, but no one’s thrown up, pitched off a bed in a fit of vertigo or collapsed from exhaustion.
“You didn’t call me,” Carson says. “How was your night?”
John glances at his team. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.