Ficathon story "Survivor: Pegasus" 2/4
“Hang in there, Rodney; we’re almost there.”
John shifted his burden as he paused and looked up; it wasn’t far to the ‘Gate now. Unlike most offworld hikes through dense foliage that normally left Rodney flushed with physical effort, the scientist’s face was deathly pale and clammy. His breath was labored and panicky, but he was losing the strength to vocalize that panic; he simply nodded at John, panting softly. The hand that was knotted around a fistful of John’s shirt was shaking, and this wasn’t the first break they’d taken to give Rodney a chance to regroup before continuing.
They’d been closer to the village than the Stargate after the whacked rodent attack, and had so opted-over Rodney’s protests-to head there first. Help could be summoned to them, John had reasoned, and sent Ronon back to the ‘Gate to that end, but the shorter the distance for Rodney the better, especially after the initial symptoms had begun to give way to something more serious.
However, their stay with the villagers had been brief; their leaders were cordial enough, but apparently wary of outsiders, especially ones that suggested-even in trade-taking precious commodities such as rare antidote. They were kind enough to allow Rodney some time to rest and regain his strength for the trip back to the Stargate and had told them exactly what they needed to do to treat the poison, but had been completely unwilling to part with so much as a scrap of the necessary root.
Had Ronon been with them, John had no doubt he’d have been ready to start shooting, and with Rodney beginning to be in some pain, he’d had the fleeting impulse to force the issue himself. In the end, however, they hadn’t come to MK5-943 to get into it with the locals, and in that moment despite his worry for Rodney, John refused to do the wrong thing for the right reasons. As far as he was concerned, once Rodney was back in Atlantis the next mission was already laid out for them, a trip to a planet the villagers had called “Avoka.” The Avokans, supposedly, were fair traders and were more willing to supply the root in trade.
“Oh...boy...” Rodney breathed out and leaned a little more heavily on John.
“McKay...?” John replied quickly, question and concern all wrapped up in a single utterance.
“D...dizzy,” Rodney supplied, bowing his head in an attempt to ride out the unpleasant sensation. It took a few moments but at last blue eyes, slightly dilated, were looking back at John.
“I know, buddy,” John murmured back, tightening his grip on his poisoned friend. “Won’t be long now, just a few more minutes and we’ll be at the clearing. Stomach still bad?” He noticed Rodney was a little hunched over, free hand pressed to his abdomen. Rodney nodded just a little, trying not to touch off another round of vertigo.
Sheppard swallowed hard. McKay complaining and moaning about every little ache and pain, or possible ways to die during missions was normal, and even ignorable when necessary or beyond annoying, but a quiet McKay, pale and withdrawn, was a McKay truly sick or injured, hurting.
“We are nearly there, Rodney,” Teyla’s voice brought John’s head up to see her doubling back to check on them. “You can make it.” Her encouragement seemed to bring Rodney out of the fugue that blanketed him and he lifted his head. John felt trembling fingers tighten on his sleeve, and he nodded once.
“Okay, just keep moving,” John said, and took a step, prompting Rodney to begin again. “Soon you’ll be in a nice warm bed on Atlantis, with all those pretty nurses making a... McKay? McKay!” Rodney had gone paper-pale.
“’m goin’ just...y’know...” Rodney murmured with a vague motion, and then his eyes rolled up in his head and he sagged heavily into John as he lost consciousness...
“Mmm...”
John wanted to say ‘McKay’ really badly but all that would come out was the ‘M’ part, on an exhalation that suddenly sent a stab of pain straight through him, it seemed, from one side of his chest to the other. He sucked in a little breath.
“Sheppard?” Ronon; right beside him, John realized, and a second attempt to speak came out more like an ‘ow!’ sort of noise. Working to force eyelids open that would rather stay closed, John had a brief glimpse of Ronon’s concerned face before they fluttered closed again. A small shove at his arm prompted John to try again; his eyes cooperated marginally better as he blinked and squinted. “’Bout time you woke up,” Ronon declared.
“Huh,” John’s grunt could marginally be called a response, and Ronon actually grinned. “What?” he mumbled and the smile disappeared.
“You were out a long time,” Ronon answered simply. “Started to wonder.”
John managed to raise an eyebrow; it might actually be the only thing that didn’t hurt to move. “Huh,” he huffed again, only this time it sounded a lot less confused and a lot more pained.
“Don’t move,” Ronon commanded, shifting a bit closer and putting a hand on John’s shoulder. “Hit your head pretty bad, coupla busted ribs, had to set ‘em. Here...” Ronon held up a canteen, and then moved to support John’s head so he could drink from it.
“I can...tell,” John replied, his voice gaining a little strength with a few sips of water. “Good thing...wasn’t ‘wake for that.” He rubbed his forehead in a vain attempt to ease the headache that had taken up residence.
“That’s what I figured,” Ronon agreed with a nod.
“What’d you...do,” John demanded a little breathlessly. “Sit on me?” That drew an amused chuckle from his Satedan friend, and John just shook his head a tiny bit, closing his eyes when that invited a bit of dizziness.
“Sheppard?” Ronon, urgent, hand on his shoulder again.
“Still here,” John murmured weakly. “Dizzy.”
“Told you not to move,” Ronon reproved. John didn’t answer him; he was too busy swallowing and trying to curb the impulse to throw up. “Do that breathing thing that Beckett says when you’re sick,” Ronon encouraged, and thankfully John actually knew what he meant. In the nose, lad; out ye’r mouth, nice an’ easy. He could practically hear the Scottish brogue in his head and John obeyed, lying still and trying to slow his breathing. Gradually the exercise began to calm the queasy feeling in his stomach. “Better?”
“Y...yeah,” John answered directly, resisting the inclination to nod. Not moving sounded pretty good right now. A moment later, he wrinkled his nose and opened his eyes. “What...is that?”
“What?” Ronon echoed, looking around alertly before realizing what John meant. “Oh. Fish,” he said with a nod toward the fire. “Nothin’ much left in the crash; might be awhile before help comes,” he explained with a simple shrug.
“Makes...s...sense,” John mumbled, even as he turned his head away from the pungent scent in an effort to stave off another round of nausea.
“Here,” Ronon’s voice drew his attention a moment later and he looked up blearily to see the canteen in front of him once again. “Don’t have any pills but I can go back and look.” Ronon jerked his head toward the cave entrance, presumably indicating the puddlejumper and the medkit that may or may not be located within the wreckage.
‘’M good,” John promised; managing another few swallows of water.
“I can see that,” Ronon said doubtfully, and John glared back, until the Satedan split into two blurry twins, and he reached up a shaky hand to rub his eyes.
“Can’t...wait ‘round...McKay...McKay needs us,” he declared a little more strongly. Despite the results of his previous attempt to move, John gathered every scrap of determination and strength and pushed himself into a sitting position. Gritting his teeth against the ensuing dizziness and the protests from the rest of his battered body-including but not limited to a minor explosion behind his eyes and a driving pain in his chest-John worked to stay mostly upright in preparation to climbing to his feet. “Gonna...lose him if...we don’t find...that stupid...root,” he grunted out between shallow breaths.
In spite of the grumbling, Ronon could easily read the flash of worry in the slightly dazed hazel eyes.
“How we gonna do that?” Ronon asked simply, having placed a hand on John’s shoulder-whether to keep him from getting up or to help him get up, John wasn’t quite sure. “Sohnu said the Avokans are on the fourth island away from the ‘Gate. ‘Case you missed it, this is the second one.”
“Maybe some...of the stuff...grows around...here,” John panted stubbornly, but then Ronon had turned into the Doublemint Twins again and his stomach announced that it wasn’t terribly pleased with the development, necessitating several rapid swallows and more of the careful breathing to keep his gut from outright rebellion.
“Maybe,” Ronon conceded with a slight shrug, but before John could really drive home the point that the needed to be out there trying to help Rodney, the big guy’s grip tightened on his shoulder, a none-too-subtle indication to sit still. “Oughta take it easy; gonna be night soon anyway.” Ronon nodded toward cave entrance and John blinked as he realized it was growing darker, dusk giving way to the deeper shadows of evening.
Part of him wanted to go anyway; he knew time was not exactly on Rodney’s side, but John also knew Ronon was being imminently practical, and his body agreed with that assessment; pain flaring through his chest at the slight huff of impatience he’d let loose and his head thumping along in time with his heart.
“We’re lookin’...in the morning...Chewie,” John warned, but Ronon didn’t lessen his grip until his shoulders slumped slightly with the effort of sitting upright.
“Uh huh,” Ronon agreed easily enough, shifting just enough to coax John back into lying down again, but he was too busy trying not to pass out in the process to make any sort of meaningful reply beyond a faint groan. When the world stopped moving, he dared to open his eyes and found Ronon watching him carefully.
“S’okay...” John asserted, despite the fact that the slurred words were somewhat less than reassuring even to his own ears, coupled with the heavy wince he couldn’t hide. “Real’...hate...broke’...ribs,” he declared between raspy breaths.
“Me too,” Ronon agreed with a slight nod, but didn’t elaborate further, and John huffed softly again, a breathless sort of chuckle.
“N...nice workin’ that...bedside...manner, b...buddy,” he mumbled tiredly. The next thing John knew, was being startled awake by a persistent tapping against his cheekbone, and the sharp little breath he sucked in left him in a soft groan.
“Sorry, Sheppard,” Ronon apologized awkwardly, but John recognized the tense note of concern and made a greater effort to concentrate. “Gotta stay awake awhile,” Ronon explained his actions. It was pretty obvious to both of them that the concussion was serious enough to warrant the extra caution, but John’s battered body had other ideas and it was just moments before his eyelids dropped lower and the tapping resumed.
“Knock...off...” This time John was just annoyed, but he forced his eyes open again. “Oh.” He mumbled as he realized where he was and who was with him and just why he’d been rudely awakened.
“Yeah,” Ronon agreed, pushing up to his feet. John watched his tall team-mate as he returned to preparing the bird for roasting over the little fire, aware that Ronon was watching him in return. Ronon was nothing if not efficient; John imagined vaguely that he’d picked up a few tricks during his time as a Runner.
“’M tired, buddy,” John said hoarsely, and while he didn’t try sitting up again, he shifted just a little, letting the pain of moving to sharpen his awareness. While Ronon wasn’t exactly Atlantis’ best conversationalist, he did have his moments and John knew that if he was going to stay conscious he needed Ronon to keep him talking.
Amazingly his taciturn friend stepped up to the plate and started talking, asking him questions about the “new” Marines that had come over on the Daedalus. They’d actually been in the city for almost two months now, and like a good soldier who’d both given and taken orders, Ronon asked pertinent questions. Despite the constant throbbing ache in his skull and ribs that made breathing a simple exercise in torture, John appreciated Ronon’s eye for fighting skill. He took note of the men Ronon pointed out to him as “pretty good” in sparring sessions; they would be ideal candidates for Gate teams.
Talk drifted to movies and questions about Earth things that Ronon had been curious about but never really saw the need to ask about before now. John found himself vaguely amused as he explained a weird collection of stuff like Iron Chef America, the White Album, MTV, Goth kids and SpongeBob, among other things. He knew where the SpongeBob question had come from; during the search for McKay’s sister awhile back, Madison had been watching Nickelodeon. The cartoon had come on while the adults were talking.
While they talked, Ronon continued to work; it wasn’t long before the scent of roasting meat began to permeate the cave, which didn’t do John’s unhappy stomach any favors but he managed to hold it together. The big guy made short work of the fish while the bird roasted, carefully turned on crudely fashioned spit utilizing a branch that Ronon had stripped down to usable wood with one of the half-dozen knives he carried.
Throughout, he kept up a...spastic sort of...discussion with John, and it was with a faint smile that John made the mental comparison between talking with Ronon versus talking with Rodney. Rodney rarely left room for getting a word in edgewise; his idea of keeping John awake would be to assault him with a steady commentary of observations, complaints, and awkward concern, rambling to the point of annoyance, punctuated with a couple of very careful nudges and several injunctions to not do anything stupid like dying for good measure.
Ronon, on the other hand, piped up just as John was about to drowse, forcing him to think, to focus in a series of short little bursts of conversation. Questions, answers, comments...it was just enough to keep him conscious without taxing him. Unlike Rodney, however, Ronon expected him to hold up his end of the bargain and answer back, a different sort of persistence than that of their scientific team-mate, accompanied by-when necessary-another tap on the face or pat on the shoulder to prompt a response.
John was unaware of drifting slightly until he again felt a pat on his upper arm, and he cracked his eyes open to see Ronon watchfully looking down at him. A moment later a pungent odor reached him and he wrinkled his nose. His stomach thankfully stayed calm for the moment, even as his eyes strayed to an odd, purplish looking gourd in Ronon’s hand. “W’...huh...?” It wasn’t quite the question he’d meant to ask, but the finger pointing did it for him.
“Some kinda fruit. I cleaned out the middle,” Ronon explained. “Got some broth; you need to keep up your strength.” Before John could think about it too much, his taller team member was slipping one forearm beneath his shoulders to prop him up as gently as he could, while bringing the purple gourd-cup to his lips with the other hand. “Drink it slow,” Ronon warned. “Don’t want it comin’ back up.”
“Me either,” John agreed with a distasteful look, but he allowed Ronon to slowly feed him the broth. It was thin, but warm, and surprisingly for being made out of what looked like this planet’s version of a hawk and served in what amounted to be a fruit rind, tasted fairly decent. John managed to sip a good portion before his stomach decided to go queasy; he reached up and pushed Ronon’s hand back. “Thanks buddy,” he mumbled.
“Don’t mention it,” Ronon said, having picked up the phrase early in his time in Atlantis. “Try to rest,” he admonished as he eased John back down. John grimaced just a little at the pull on his ribs, but didn’t argue at all as rest sounded really good right now. “Don’t go to sleep yet,” he tacked on, and John just groaned.
Silence descended for a few minutes while John worked to keep his meager supper in his stomach and Ronon worked his way through a portion of the bird meat. A little closer, it almost smelled like a roasted chicken. Apparently the meat was as tasty as the broth; it seemed that Ronon was enjoying their impromptu barbeque. Well...except for that whole...crash landing thing, anyway.
“What...hit us...n’way?” John wondered aloud, both in genuine puzzlement and in a bid to stay awake.
“Dunno,” Ronon confessed around a mouthful of meat, a generalized shrug. “Whatever it was, you said it killed the drive pod.”
“Left...’r right...one?” John asked, a little vaguely thanks to his injuries but curious nonetheless; something had torn apart his ship and he wanted to know what the devil had happened. He didn’t like the hole in his memory, even if it was just a few minutes’ worth. It apparently had been a few minutes where their lives had been on the line.
“What?” Ronon asked as he looked over at his injured team leader and friend. “Oh. Right...right one, I think,” he said at length, after briefly casting back in his mind to the moment in question. A slight smirk showed up a moment later. “Was busy helpin’ you look for a place to land, remember?” John reached up and cautiously rubbed his forehead, a futile effort to scrub away the thumping ache keeping his brain company.
“Yeah...uh...sorta,” he grumbled irritably. McKay, he knew, would be complaining in nauseating detail about the crash ruining a perfectly good jumper, and how they only had a finite supply of those, after all, and where did John get his pilot’s license and maybe he could rig up enough power to signal Atlantis in half an hour in a perfect universe but since it obviously was out to get them, it wasn’t likely...
“What?” Ronon was frowning at him, and it was then that John realized he was almost smiling.
“Somehow...not quite...same...without...McKay griping about...it all,” he got out between the careful, painful breaths the broken ribs forced on him. He received a snort in reply from Ronon, and he looked over to find the taller man shaking his head a little. Ronon then met his gaze fully, his face completely serious in that way that usually made John wonder who was about to get punched.
“McKay’s gonna be okay,” the Satedan pronounced firmly. “Beckett’s got him. Lorne and Teyla are out there, too.” There wasn’t a single note of doubt in Ronon’s voice, and John exhaled slowly.
“Leave it...Rodney...get...bit up by...Alvin...on steroids,” he finally breathed out, and left it at that. John knew, deep down, that he had the best team in two galaxies on this. Carson Beckett knew his stuff; the Scot would fight tooth and nail to save Rodney’s life. Teyla would bargain for that root within an inch of selling her soul, and John knew firsthand just how persuasive she could be. He almost felt sorry for the people she was seeking out. Lorne would watch her back without question, too. And if there was anybody he’d want to be stranded with right now in the middle of nowhere after a punishing jumper crash, it was Ronon Dex. John knew Ronon’s uncanny survival skills would serve them both until Atlantis could mount a rescue.
“What’s an ‘Alvin’?” Ronon wanted to know.
John just chuffed what his ribs passed as a chuckle and began to explain.
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