Ficathon story "Survivor: Pegasus" 3/4
It was near the mid-watch when the fever set in.
Ronon was no stranger to all night watches, a legacy from his days as a Runner. He’d just returned from a short scout around the cave area, carrying an extra armload of wood for the fire, when soft, incoherent mumbling broke the silence of the night.
Putting down the wood immediately, he moved further into the cave, crouching down beside Sheppard. In the meager light of the fire, the colonel looked sickly pale, save a slight flush gracing his cheekbones, and was shivering as if to shake apart. More talking, not unlike McKay in the Infirmary earlier, and a sudden dread seized Ronon’s heart.
Quickly pulling away his coat from the slender body, Ronon set to removing the remains of the TAC vest and then proceeded to carefully, but quickly look over Sheppard’s lean form, checking arms and hands first before tugging up the teeshirt and checking chest, abdomen and sides, all the while careful of the broken bones. It was a task made all the more pressing and uncomfortable by more delirious rambling, some of it understandable and some of it too slurred and soft to make much sense.
Ronon gently pulled Sheppard up against his shoulder, supporting the colonel as his eyes darted over the shivering back. He almost missed it, almost pulled the teeshirt back down but there it was. An angry, reddish bite-mark just below Sheppard’s right shoulder blade, swollen and slightly seeping drew a sharp curse from Ronon, even as he felt the heat radiating from his friend, leaning there on his shoulder.
Sheppard moaned softly and Ronon sighed, carefully maneuvering his friend against his arm so that he might reach with a free hand for the TAC vest. The colonel moaned again, mumbling something about...the Genii? Something in his dreams, anyway, while Ronon rifled through the vest one-handed looking for more bandages. He found what he needed and set about doing what needed to be done, despite the awkward angle, but Sheppard’s broken ribs guaranteed he wouldn’t be lying down on his sides or stomach for this.
“Sorry, buddy,” he apologized gruffly when another painful moan escaped, this time rather close to his ear. “Gotta clean it up a little at least.” He slopped some of the water from the canteen on Sheppard’s back, using a bit of gauze that remained to clean the wound and mop up the water as best he could. There was just about enough gauze after that to cover the wound and be taped in place. After that, it was getting his friend situated once again; tugging the teeshirt back over the bruised torso and easing Sheppard back down.
Hazel eyes, bright with fever, were blinking hazily up at him when he did.
“Wh...where...?”
“Easy, Sheppard,” Ronon soothed, one hand resting on the colonel’s shoulder, a reminder to stay put. The pale features pinched into a confused frown. “Got a knock on the head and a fever,” Ronon told him simply, and the frown eased a bit.
“’Splains...it,” Sheppard slurred, his voice slow and soft. “’m not feelin’...so g...good.”
“Yeah,” Ronon acknowledged, arranging the long duster over the ailing lieutenant colonel. “Looks like Alvin got you, too, buddy.” When he received a blank look in response, the Satedan continued, “You have one of those bites like McKay. Don’t move around, okay?”
He got a small nod. “’Kay,” Sheppard agreed and Ronon let go of the shoulder with a light pat.
“Gonna go back to the ‘jumper and get some stuff,” he declared, watching his ill friend carefully to be sure Sheppard was getting it. “We need the medicine kit.” The fact that it, too, might have been destroyed in the crash, he didn’t mention. “Here.” Ronon placed both the canteen and Sheppard’s nine mil within easy reach should the need arise. “Just in case,” he said as the weapon was laid down by the water. “Be back as fast as I can.”
“Mmmh...” Sheppard’s response, Ronon gauged, was about as good as it was going to get, and he shifted. Before he could rise, however, hot fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist, and Ronon paused. “B’ careful, out there...” Ronon gave his friend a mischievous smile.
“Always am,” he promised, and gave John another pat on the shoulder, wincing when his friend groaned slightly. “You too,” he pressed, and finally pushed up to his feet. He put more wood on the fire, ensuring it would have fuel enough in his absence. At the cave entrance, however, Ronon paused and looked back at Sheppard. He wasn’t surprised to see the feverish eyes watching him, and he gave his injured friend a firm nod. “Be back soon,” Ronon reassured and with that slipped off into the darkness, weapon in hand.
As before, it took a handful of moments for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight overhead as opposed to the brighter firelight, but he was already instinctively moving as his training on Sateda and years on the run had taught him. He wasn’t worried about the journey back to the downed puddlejumper; they hadn’t really gone that far inland from the crash site and the light, once his eyes had adjusted, was actually quite good.
He was more concerned with what he would find-or not find-when he got there.
That Sheppard was just now showing symptoms of the poison confirmed Beckett’s theory that the critters hunted in higher numbers to bring down big prey faster with many bites, overwhelming the victim’s system with large amounts of the toxin. McKay had begun to react within minutes thanks to dozens of bites he’d gotten on his hands, arms, and face before they’d been able to escape. The best they could figure, McKay had accidentally disturbed a nest of the things, explaining both the attack on the scientist in particular and the smaller group of the animals involved.
But, the Scot had said, that didn’t mean fewer bites weren’t as deadly; just slower. Sheppard was gonna need that medical kit if Ronon was going to keep him alive until help came. He was also going to need a way to boil water; even if he could find the purification tablets among the debris in the dark, there was no guarantee that they weren’t now contaminated from the crash. Wouldn’t hurt to make Sheppard more comfortable with a blanket or two from the emergency supplies either; a hard rock floor wasn’t exactly a soft bed in the Infirmary, where his friend really needed to be.
The journey back to the wreckage went a lot faster, despite the darkness, now that he wasn’t carrying around the extra weight of an unconscious man, and Ronon found himself picking his way along the sandy beach, trying to avoid stepping on any jagged edges. Under the cover of darkness, with just the light of moon and stars, the puddlejumper’s forward section looked like a ghostly husk, and Ronon actually shuddered slightly; it reminded him too much of home, of Sateda, the cities crumbled and scarred from the Wraith culling.
Ronon was no pilot, but he could now see that the angle of the crash wasn’t accidental; Sheppard had done it by design, bringing them down in such a way to give the cockpit the best possible chance of remaining intact. Closer, and he could see the damage left by the shearing of the left drive pod; he had to admit to being impressed. He wasn’t sure anybody else would’ve done as well.
The tall fighter brought up his weapon carefully as he approached the broken remains of the jumper; they’d been told the Avokans were all holed up on the fourth and fifth islands in this particular chain, but he was taking no chances. He’d seen the remains of places culled by the Wraith picked clean by scavengers hoping to survive on whatever they could find to live on, sell or trade. The last time he’d been on Sateda, when the Wraith had tried again to make him a Runner, it hadn’t yet been completely scavenged.
Coming up on the hull of the craft, Ronon quickly stepped around the jagged edge, his weapon pointing into the cockpit, but there was nothing-no one-there. Still it was a moment or two before he holstered the weapon and began his search. As the cockpit had actually stayed intact...mostly...it was just a moment’s work to secure the medical kit behind the pilot’s seat. Amazingly it had not suffered any ill effect, it seemed and that was good. They would need the bandages, the gauze, and that Tylenol stuff to tame Sheppard’s fever as much as possible. The bindings keeping it secured to the bulkhead, however, were another story and it took Ronon several minutes and nearly the blade of one of his best knives to remove it.
Finding other supplies was much more difficult. Wreckage was strewn all about the beachhead in the immediate area, and some of it, he knew, must have fallen into the sea. Ronon rummaged through scattered and in some cases, damaged containers. Coming on a flashlight early in his search proved helpful as he scoured the sands for items of use.
At last he had an armful of supplies, including the life-signs detector, two of the emergency thermal blankets, the medical kit, three MRE’s and, although unable to locate the extra water rations, he had a metal container suitable for boiling water. It was a start, and if Atlantis was unable to send help by morning, the light of day it would make for easier searching. Aided by the flashlight as well as the moon overhead now, Ronon started back for the cave where Sheppard waited. He worked his way back through the dense foliage, making good time, but as Ronon approached their makeshift shelter, his sharp ears caught the sounds of fever-talk and painful groaning; he picked up his pace.
Coming to the cave entrance, the former Runner instantly halted.
A nine-millimeter shakily hovered in his direction.
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Be back soon. Ronon had promised and then gone off in search of...something...someone? No, no, they’d come here looking for something, something important.
“Be...back...h...he’ll be...said so,” John muttered to himself, closing his eyes as the taller man slid effortlessly into the shadows beyond the cave and was gone. “Jus’ got...gotta s...stay ‘wake, an’...” John paused in his monologue and blinked up into the darkness hovering beyond the firelight that danced on the cave walls. His head pounded and swam; he squinted and blinked by turns in an effort to clear his vision. His stomach, so recently nauseated, was now starting to cramp and ache painfully, adding to the already difficult chore of breathing with broken ribs. Just like...just like...M...M...
Just like Ford. Just like Ford coming off that Wraith enzyme on the Hive ship, struggling against the pain in his gut from the withdrawal. John’s breathing picked up, a brief panic racing through him at the memory until he recalled Ford hadn’t given him the drug; he’d been the “control” of the group. McKay...McKay had been the one to almost die.
McKay’s sick...gotta find McKay.
Cold. Icy fingers seemed to rake through him and he shivered, moaning when it ignited the fire in his stomach and made his head throb. Wraith ships were always so cold. Wrapping one arm cautiously around his middle, he carefully pulled himself into a sitting position. His gut clenched hard, and then he felt sick, but he managed to breathe through it. When he dared to lift his head, he cautiously surveyed his cell. It was damp...slick, like most Wraith ships, the organic composition as grotesque as it was functional.
John sat still for long moments, breathing carefully; the cramps seized his stomach in waves, the squeezing ache making him groan in spite of himself, his chest protesting every breath. He closed his eyes, panting a little from the effort. When he opened them again, his gaze landed to his left, and he blinked in surprise.
Since when did the Wraith start leaving water and weapons for their prisoners?
Shakily he reached over and closed his fingers around the Glock, knowing just from the feel that it was indeed his, and he brought his other hand around to check the clip. Satisfied, he shoved the clip into place, and at last he lurched unsteadily to his feet. A moan slipped out before he’d quite realized as his stomach cramped up and he leaned against the wall, dizzy with pain. Way to go, John, make noise during your escape! Who was he kidding; escape? He wasn’t sure he could walk. Suddenly the pervasive chill of a moment ago gave way to a hot, sick feeling and he could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
“C’mon...c...c’mon, John...th...they’ll be back...an’...minute...then be...too late. Too late...gotta move out...” he mumbled, forgetting his self-recrimination for a moment ago for making sounds of pain. “McKay...help, gotta help.”
Carefully he pushed away from the wall, one hand gripping the nine mil; the other cradling his midsection. He had to find...had to look. For Rodney, he had to look. He managed a pair of steps, and suddenly he was faced with a tall, fierce shadow in the doorway, and instinctively he brought his gun to bear on the Wraith that would keep him from getting out, from getting...he had to get something.
“Sheppard,” the figure in the entrance intoned, and John blinked hard, trying to push away the dizziness. “C’mon, you’re sick. Lemme help you.” The deep voice commanded John’s attention and he forced his head up.
“Since when...y’...wanna help me?” John slurred and his hand shook trying to keep the gun drawn on his enemy. “I need...get out...here...” His hand dropped heavily; somehow he managed not to lose his grip on the Glock entirely, but the pain and dizziness were getting worse, and suddenly he was being steadied on his feet by a familiar friend.
“Easy, Sheppard,” Ronon rumbled, right next to him. “I got you, buddy.” All at once, John knew the voice and a faint smile stole over pallid features.
“Knew you’d...be back,” he pronounced tiredly. “Wraith nev’r...had...chance.” The nine millimeter dropped from a hand too unsteady to hold it any longer, and John felt himself abruptly sagging into Ronon, his knees apparently unwilling to hold him up anymore either. He heard a rough grunt as the taller man shifted his balance to deal with the additional weight, and John let him, bowing his head sharply as the world tilted away.
He didn’t remember getting to the ground; when awareness returned he was lying on something soft, if a little lumpy and despite being covered with a blanket, he was shaking. His head still pounded and his stomach still hurt. He choked a little, and that brought swift attention; a big, cool hand rested on his forehead. “Sheppard?”
Ronon.
John forced his eyes open, looking up blearily. The world above him was unfocused and he swallowed convulsively; nausea threatening to overpower him. Apparently Ronon was all over that; the big guy carefully got an arm beneath John’s shoulders and gently pulled him up. “Ohhnnn...” John groaned, but Ronon was steady at his side.
“S’okay, Sheppard. McKay’s gut got bad too, remember?”
John nodded ever-so-slightly. Sitting up meant the blanket was pooled in his lap, and he shuddered, which touched off aching in his head and chest, and was grateful for Ronon’s support when his stomach made good on its threat and he retched into what looked like the lid from the first aid kit. Nothing was said when John slumped dizzily against Ronon’s shoulder, and a moment later John felt the canteen at his lips. He took the small sip offered to rinse his mouth and was just as grateful when Ronon helped him lie back again.
“Th...Thanks, Chewie,” John murmured hoarsely, and he was vaguely aware of the blanket being pulled over him again. Ronon said something about resting; John wanted to say that if his stomach would agree, he would agree, but wasn’t entirely sure that the words actually left his mouth. A hazy sort of awareness descended after that, and while he was somewhat conscious of Ronon talking to him, the particulars were indistinct.
He shivered. He burned. Shallower breaths were easier as the intermittent cramping and nausea settled into a more persistent, steady pain in his upper abdomen; anything deeper felt as though someone was twisting a knife into his stomach. His head felt fuzzy and heavy.
He drifted in and out of the darkness, hot and cloying. Sometimes he saw Ronon or the stone ceiling above, and sometimes he saw other things, terrifying things, that made his heart beat faster and his already hurting stomach tighten apprehensively before the waiting black came for him again and he slipped away.
John blinked sluggishly now, his eyes about halfway opened. The fire still burned and he was grateful for the warmth, even as he shivered a bit beneath the blanket that covered him. His gaze slid past the fire-circle to the cave entrance. It was dark out there and he could hear the rustle of wind. Still night, then...or maybe more than one night; he didn’t know.
“Hey,” Ronon settled down beside him and the fierce look his friend normally wore was tempered by a good bit of concern. “Good to see you ‘wake again,” he declared, even though he was looking at John a little critically. And then John felt something blessedly cool and soft on his face and he realized Ronon was folding a damp cloth over his sweating forehead.
“How...long?” John croaked out and Ronon shrugged as he sat back.
“’Bout an hour, this time,” the Satedan supplied. “Be dawn in awhile.”
John wondered how long ‘awhile’ would be, but felt far too rotten to bother asking; he merely gave Ronon a small nod. “Okay,” he accepted.
“Here,” Ronon lifted his head a little and brought the canteen to his lips. “Drink a little if you can; you got a bad fever.”
“Bad...ever’thing,” John agreed and he cautiously sipped at the cool liquid, wincing as it hit his unhappy stomach but drinking just a little more as it felt so good on his throat.
“Pain?” Ronon had not missed the wince and he pulled back the canteen. John could only nod and Ronon set aside the water. “Try it again a little later,” he explained as he eased John back down onto a makeshift pallet that was covered with the Satedan’s leather duster, another blanket rolled and tucked behind his head.
“You’ve...been busy...all night,” he guessed, his voice still a little raspy despite the water.
“Yeah,” Ronon said quietly, and then gave John what could only be called a poker face. “Takin’ care of you is turnin’ into the big job McKay said it was.” John huffed; the soft breath was going to have to be taken together as indignation and amusement. “Take it easy; need to save your strength.” There was only seriousness in Ronon’s manner now.
“Can do that,” John mumbled, his hazy gaze drawn by the flickering fire. Almost of their own volition, eyelids slid to half-mast, blinking drowsily as the whole Pegasus Galaxy narrowed to the crackling flames and the rhythm of his own careful breathing. Ronon’s voice was above him, saying something but John didn’t distinguish the words immediately; something about Atlantis... “They’ll sen’ someone,” he assured, without turning his attention from the fire’s mesmerizing dance. “Gotta...find the thing...for M’Kay, ‘fore...go back,” John’s hand flopped over, meant to be a gesture to underline his words. “Gotta save...” he trailed off in a pained groan, and his eyes chose surrender to the painless bliss of darkness once more over the beautiful agony of firelight.
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