Dumbstruck by Madison & the_cephalopod - J/R (NC-17)
Title: Dumbstruck
Authors:sgamadison & the_cephalopod
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~32,000 words
Authors' notes: Written for velocitygrass's 'It's Only Just Begun' Fest on mcsheplets. Many thanks to our wonderful betas - bluespirit_star, rissabby, and zinfic - all of whom have made this story much better. We also have to say an enormous THANK YOU to the amazingly talented bluespirit_star for creating the beautiful cover for the story. We are completely overwhelmed by how utterly perfect it is and cannot thank you enough. *hugs* Everyone, please do go tell her here how stunning her artwork is.
Summary: His existence, as he remembered it, began eleven days ago. He knew the word day was what to call the cycle between a single span of sunlight and darkness, but he could not remember what groupings of days were called. He didn’t think it mattered much.
Dumbstruck
Part One
The ground was hard and the rough wooden handle of the tool felt odd and unfamiliar in his hands. He looked down at them, raw and reddened in the cold morning air and then a shout had him looking up again. The man yelling at him from the side of the field was speaking in a language incomprehensible to him, but he knew what the other man intended just the same. Keep working. Work or you do not eat. Work or we will hit you.
Whatever, a corner of his mind supplied, and he tightened his grip on the handle. The handle of the hoe. The word came to him suddenly, as words sometimes did, in a burst of illumination, only to leave him feeling flat and cold when the insight changed nothing. Whatever it was called, it was still a tool in his hands with which he was to dig holes in the semi-frozen ground. It wasn’t even the right time of the year to plant things-though how he knew this, he wasn’t sure. This was just busy-work, something that you made the newbies do, to teach them unquestioning obedience. He knew that too, knew instinctively he’d been through something similar before, recognized as well that what he was experiencing now was inherently different.
He just didn’t know different how.
His existence, as he remembered it, began eleven days ago. He knew the word day was what to call the cycle between a single span of sunlight and darkness, but he could not remember what groupings of days were called. He didn’t think it mattered much. Not as much as noting that the calluses on his hands did not match the blisters that he was developing, or that he and the other people who worked the fields all had a shiny implant embedded into the right side of their heads or that he was the only one of the workers that did not seem to understand the language. Or that he was the only one who ever got angry.
The other workers seemed passive in their chores. Oh sure, they hated the cold, and working in the fields without the proper clothing (gear, his brain supplied) and the fact that they weren’t getting much to eat. But he seemed to be the only one who objected, who resisted, who fought back when pushed around.
He’d gotten punched and beaten a few times before he'd learned to hide the anger. Watch and learn. He could do that. The men who supervised the fieldwork had seemed to relax a bit after that, though they were quick to warn him if they thought he was getting out of line again. At night, after the workers had eaten and crawled wearily into the communal hut for sleeping, he would lie awake and wonder about who he was and who he had been. He’d thought about leaving this place but his mind teased him with thoughts of where-at least here he had food and shelter of a sort. He didn’t have enough information yet. He needed to wait. Sometimes odd thoughts and memories would come to him in the early morning hours-in that tiny window between sleeping and waking. He began to crave that small slice of time, but to pursue it too vigorously was to watch it slip through his fingers like the silt in the bottom of the creek bed.
He’d risen early that morning and gone to the creek for water without being told, drinking from the ice cold stream on his hands and knees before filling the water buckets. Like a dog, he’d thought and the image of a large, black animal leapt into his mind-blocky, square-cut head and muzzle, lolling tongue, floppy ears. It was the expression of the creature that captivated him in his sudden vision though. The exuberant expectation of ‘we’re going to do something fun’. He’d known somehow that there were no dogs here and that thought depressed him somewhat.
He’d come back with the water buckets and set them up in their place so that the workers would find them when they rose, and then he’d begun efficiently starting the campfire that would be used to make the tik-tik that the others drank. It had taken him a while to get used to the syrupy sweetness of the boiled tik-tik root, but it went a long way to offsetting the nauseating, glutinous mess that served as breakfast. He’d learned to eat that too, discovering that it was necessary in order to put in a full day’s work. He’d been pretty sure he’d had worse. The first time he’d eaten it, he’d gotten a mental image a man eating a similar looking glop of food and hearing himself say, “You really like that stuff?”
At least, he thought it had been him speaking. His brain seemed to suggest that it was, but he’d never actually heard himself talk. Oh he tried, but the words would not come to him. His mouth would open, but nothing would come out.
So he’d concentrated instead on the image of the other man-long, sharp nose, thin mobile lips, penetrating blue eyes. An engaging grin (though his brain also suggested this was not always the case). He told himself that this other guy was important, because he looked so different from the workers-in dress, in coloring, in overall appearance. It had to mean something.
That morning, as he’d poked at the fire with a stick and gotten the tik-tik going, the cloth flap covering the door to the hut had opened and Fred had come out. At least, that’s what he called the guy in his head-he had to call him something. Fred was tall with long, reddish-brown hair and a full beard and had been in the camp long enough to intimidate the newer arrivals into giving him most of their outer garments. Fred had stepped out into the frosty air stretching, small clouds of vapor released as he breathed. He had straightened and looked over at the fire with a smoldering glance.
Fred was a potential problem. He’d tended the fire without looking up; ignoring the stare that Fred was giving him. Most of the other workers left him alone-the language barrier was a big factor in that. But he’d also discovered, one night when he’d broken up a scuffle over food, that he had unusual fighting skills compared to the other workers. The Bourne Identity, his mind suggested, but the words proved meaningless to him-there was simply nothing further to grasp beyond the phrase itself. The workers had granted him some respectful space after that. Fred, however, had made it very obvious that he was interested in the newbie that couldn’t speak. The first time Fred had cupped his ass and had gotten a fistful of knuckles in return hadn’t deterred him much. Fred still cast a lustful eye in his direction most days.
The thing was, he wasn’t opposed to sex with men in principle-he knew that too somehow. He could tell which workers were horrified by the idea as well as the ones that submitted out of fear. Sometimes in that early morning time, he could almost picture someone lying close and warm beside him, could smell familiar skin if he just turned his head, could reach down and close his own hand over the hand slowly jacking him off. That the person next to him was masculine and not feminine didn’t seem to matter. Those brief moments of memory were the best part of his day.
But Fred bore watching. Sooner or later, Fred was going to challenge him in some way, either over sex or because Fred needed to feel like he was the strongest guy in the bunch. When that day came, he’d have to decide how to respond. Until then, he’d just keep his head down and try not to attract any more attention.
He dug the hard ground slowly, pausing to glance up at the sun. A long way to go before the day warmed up or they could expect any food. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and ducked the blow before it landed on his shoulder. It was the field supervisor; face red with either cold or anger, shaking a fist and yelling at him, no doubt for not working very enthusiastically. He stared back as he leaned on the hoe handle, feeling one eyebrow rise and noting that this seemed to raise the supervisor’s blood pressure as well. His brain positively itched to say something suitably smart-assed to the man raging at him, while at the same time acknowledging that it was probably just as well that he couldn’t speak because, yeah, making a smart-assed comment was probably not the brightest thing he could’ve done at the moment.
The supervisor raised a fist to strike him and he rapidly weighed the risk:benefit ratio of blocking the blow with the handle of the hoe. Before he could act however, there came a curious whine and a ‘whump’ of sound and then the supervisor arched his back and his entire body briefly lit with a reddish glow that crawled over him like flames licking a log on the fire. He collapsed in a heap on the ground.
The other workers ran screaming from the field, but he dropped to the ground beside the supervisor, using the prone body as a shield as he peered up and over at the source of the blast. The supervisor was still alive and had no apparent injuries. Stunned. But by what?
He soon got his answer. From the tree line, a huge man came running in his direction, weapon drawn. As the man approached, he could see that this man was different from either the supervisor or the workers, skin darker in color and hair matted up in locks that looked like a lion’s mane. The image of a lion with those same greenish-gold eyes flashed before him as he rolled to his feet and swung the hoe into a defensive posture. The lion man was followed by a lithe, athletic looking woman, who held an impressive weapon at the ready, obviously covering their approach.
The man frowned and came to a halt as the hoe came up. He began to speak in a growling voice. The woman joined him and began to speak quietly while the lion man looked obviously impatient. As he watched, the man touched something in his ear and spoke again, but it didn’t seem like he was talking to the woman. The woman stepped forward and held out a hand in a placating manner. He raised his eyebrow again. It wasn’t like he was really in a position to defend himself if they decided to shoot him, but they didn’t seem to be angry with him. He couldn’t help but be interested in what was going on. It suddenly occurred to him that this was what he’d been waiting for-but he still did not know how to respond.
The big guy spoke to the air again and then reached out to take him by the arm. He blocked the move with the hoe handle and watched as the other man tightened his mouth and grabbed at the handle, forcing the two of them into a tug of war. It was no real contest: the arms of the other guy bulged with muscles and with an interesting little twist the hoe was wrenched out of his sore hands and tossed aside. The woman adjusted her weapon so that it was in a neutral position and then approached him again, hands open, palms up, speaking in a soothing tone, the way to approach a wild pony.
Pony conjured up a sturdy beast with a coat shining like a copper penny, which reminded him of this woman’s hair and then the memory galloped away into nothingness. The woman seemed to be pleading with him. He watched both people warily. Nothing he’d learned so far in the last eleven days had taught him much good about people in general, but there had to be something better out there, he knew that. He also thought it odd that neither the man nor the woman spoke the language of the workers, or the even same language between them and that was another little strange bit to the puzzle that he found interesting.
The door to the hut flew open and Fred came charging out with a battle cry and swinging a length of wood. All three watched as the Fred ran ferociously towards them and he found himself thinking ‘wait for it, wait for it,’ until the lion man casually raised his arm, the muscles standing out in sharp relief as though carved in wood, the huge weapon steady in his hand. Fred had a moment of pulling up abruptly, but too late. The weapon discharged and Fred collapsed in the same manner as the supervisor, a look of surprise on his face.
He couldn’t help it, he laughed. The lion man turned his head sharply to look at him and then grinned. It felt right somehow.
Something in the air nearby changed the pressure around them; he was the first to look up and was in time to see the air shimmer and waver (like the heat coming off the asphalt on a hot summer day) and amazingly, a large box-like structure hovered in the air above them before making a slightly wobbly descent to the ground. Once it touched down, a rear compartment door lowered and an agitated man appeared in the entranceway.
“Come on, come on, I got the device, let’s hurry up and get out of here before the locals show up with their pitchforks.” The man was waving his arms urgently and he felt his mouth fall open at his understanding of the words. “Is he alright?” The man continued anxiously. “Ohmygod, John, are you alright?” The man came down the ramp and locked eyes with him and he felt a jolt of recognition as he saw those blue eyes peering at him in concern. It was the man from his memory of the bland food and he wanted to reach out for him and say, “hey, I know you,” but the words didn’t come.
The woman was speaking again, but the man with the blue eyes didn’t appear to be listening. Instead he was staring with narrowed eyes and the man suddenly reached out and touched the silver node on the side of his head. Pain arced through him and he arched back just like the people who had been stunned, crying out inarticulately before dropping to the ground and twitching.
The other man appeared to have been shocked as well; he yelped and cursed and then was suddenly kneeling at his side, stroking his arm, his shoulder, his hair and saying over and over, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t know that would happen, I’m going to fix it, I promise.”
Despite the fact that this guy had just caused him excruciating pain, something in him believed the man. Maybe because the guy was so upset. He tried to say with his eyes, ‘It’s ok, but just don’t do that again,’ and he got a tense smile in return. He started to get to his feet and felt a firm grip under one arm helping him up. The other guy didn’t let go when they were both standing and he felt the need to frown and pull back a bit.
“No, no, you’ve got to come with us,” the other man said, never taking those intense eyes off his face. “Look, we’ve got to hurry-I’ve performed all sorts of illegal acts on your behalf-Elizabeth might well have my head on a platter when we get back to Atlantis. You know how she gets when she thinks diplomacy has a snowball's chance in hell of working. This is your big escape-c’mon.” The last word was delivered with urgency and another tug on his arm.
Something about the word Atlantis resonated within him, a hum, a harmonic, a song that he didn’t understand but seemed like home. Home felt like a place he wanted to be.
The big guy said something and the man holding his arm snapped over his shoulder in response, “No, we are not going to stun him, Ronon. Brute force is not the answer to everything. Besides, we have no idea what stunning might do to that implant and I don’t want to risk frying what little brains he has left.”
He reached out and pushed the guy on the shoulder, protesting the comment with his expression as he pulled his arm free from the grip. The guy turned a look of confusion and dawning hope on him that made him feel uncomfortable, so he looked away. The woman was speaking quietly again, obviously talking to both men and he got the feeling that she did this a lot; that she was the voice of reason that was frequently ignored. He found himself giving her a rueful grin and she looked a little startled before she smiled back. She touched the man with blue eyes on the arm and spoke again.
The man said in an aside over his shoulder, “Yes, yes, Teyla, I think you’re right.” He focused that penetrating stare again, only this time there seemed to be sorrow and pleading embedded in it as well. “Look, John, that’s your name, okay? John Sheppard.”
No, John Doe is what you call someone with no identity.
“Teyla thinks you can understand something of what I’m saying and so do I, only I don’t know how much. The important thing here is that we’re your friends, see?” The guy somehow managed to imbue the word friends with so much more, but it was nebulous and frothy and did nothing to sustain him. “We’re here to rescue you. Oh god.” He turned away and began to speak rapidly to the other people. “This is all my fault-this should be me here and not him.”
The big guy rumbled something again and the other man snarled, “We are not shooting him! How many times do I have to say that? Are you deaf or just willfully ignoring me?”
He looked back and forth at the two men glaring angrily at each other and tossed up his hands at shoulder height in a gesture of both ‘pax’ and surrender. The man with the blue eyes beamed at him suddenly. “Wait, he’s decided to come with us. Okay, that’s great. Let’s go, then. Chop, chop. Hurry, before the Mongol hordes appear on the horizon.”
He followed them to the back of the vehicle that his brain told him shouldn’t be able to fly, much less hover, but another part of his head told him not to worry about it. He instinctively made for a seat near the viewscreen up front, but the man with the blue eyes took him by the arm and gently seated him in the opposite chair. “Not that I don’t trust your flying skills right now, but well, I don’t, not entirely.”
The big man said something deep and growling from the seat behind them and the woman popped him sharply on arm with the back of one hand. He cast a glance to check the big guy’s reaction, but he was grinning at the woman.
He watched, fascinated, as the man with the blue eyes went through the motions of lift-off, a green, lighted display appearing like magic before his eyes in the air in front of him, his hands moving (like a concert pianist) over the control console, flipping switches and bringing the little ship around to fly off in a different direction than it had been facing. He found himself grinning when the man looked over at him and the man smiled crookedly back at him, though the smile still looked painful somehow.
The man at the controls kept sneaking looks at him as the ship climbed higher into the sky and he finally pointed rudely at the viewscreen and tapped it impatiently. The blue-eyed man opened his mouth to say something but the big guy in the back laughed loudly and said something that caused him to clamp his lips shut tightly instead. The sky outside began to darken and then the stars appeared. A single word of awe and pleasure hovered around his brain, looking for a way out, but to no avail. He sat in silence and appreciated the view instead.
The man in the back said something again and the man at the controls spoke sharply in return. “I don’t know yet, okay? I just barely got a look at it before it pulled a Frankenstein number on me with the electricity thing, and you saw what that did to him. I’m going to have to get the device back to Atlantis and study it further before we attempt anything else just yet.”
The woman said something and the man at the controls answered her, but stared straight at him instead, looking at him as though he were some sort of odd puzzle that needed solving. “I think you’re right, Teyla. Whatever the Zolon meant for the device to do, it didn’t quite work as expected on him. He may not know who he is, or who we are,” and his voice carried a note of sadness there, “but he’s still in there. At least, some of his personality remains.”
A rumbling growl came from the back and the man with blue eyes tore his gaze away to speak over his shoulder. “I thought of that, and yes, you’re undoubtedly right. Of course, we don’t know what the Ancients intended when they created it in the first place, but I’m sure it wasn’t designed to be used the way the Zolon did-for the punishment of prisoners.”
Teyla said something that sounded encouraging and the man with blue eyes gave a heavy sigh. “We’ll have to search the database first and see if we can determine what the original function was-then I need to see if the device has been altered in any way by the Zolon or if it works differently on people with the ATA gene than everyone else. Or if the implant somehow acts to suppress the individual’s personality. We just don’t have enough information yet.”
Teyla spoke again and the man’s shoulders slumped. “I know, I know. We’ll just have to stall for time. The Daedalus isn’t due for at least a month-we’ve probably got until then before Elizabeth is forced to make a decision.” He straightened, suddenly looking very determined. “I will fix this. You can count on it. Okay, we’re coming up on the gate-dial it up, Teyla.”
Teyla came forward between the two chairs and began punching symbols on a raised, round platform in the middle of the console. She smiled at him as she approached, but all he could think of as he watched her small, brown hand was the memory of sitting across from another boy with a similar row of buttons on a game board between them, waiting his turn as the buttons lit up in a pattern and he tried to duplicate them. The other boy in the memory looked up at him and he knew the boy’s name, but he could not get the word to form in his brain.
As Teyla punched in the final button, the man with the blue eyes turned that crooked grin in his direction and said, “Get ready for the show.”
Ahead of them in space, a large ring hung suspended in the void. As he watched, lights began to fire on the side of the ring and suddenly there was a great out-rushing of blue energy into the space in front of them, only to leap back into the ring and hover in a shimmering wave within. That word of awe stirred in the back of his mind again, but refused to come out and play.
“Thank god, it’s all on autopilot from here,” the man at the console said with a large sigh as the ship lined itself up for the ring of light.
Rodney, he thought. Your name is Rodney.
He felt a momentary surge of satisfaction before a wave of depression nearly swamped him. How did he know he wasn’t just making that up, the way he’d named Fred?
The ship was on a course for the ring and then suddenly seemed sucked into it. He felt an intense cold and then a sensation of being pulled in all directions before he was suddenly released to find himself sitting in the same seat as before. Only they were no longer in space but hovering just inside a large room. A beautiful room. From what he could see, the ceilings stretched to the sky and it was all sunlight and warmth and color and prisms and geometric design and a thousand voices that began murmuring to him all at once.
Welcome home, John. Welcome home.
The ship didn’t stay in that room, however. The small craft rose vertically and then went through an opening in the roof, taking them into what was obviously a place to store the little ships. A parking garage. When they landed, the big guy in the back spoke once more.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about what Weir will say, McKay,” the big man said. “She’ll come around pretty quick, you’ll see.”
He felt a momentary disappointment at getting the blue-eyed man's name wrong before it registered that he’d understood the lion man this time. He turned his head sharply to look at him.
Teyla was watching him and she leaned forward in her seat. “John? Can you understand us now?”
He nodded his head to indicate he did.
“I don’t get it. What changed? Back on the planet he acted like he could only understand you, McKay.” The big guy was frowning again.
McKay seemed to be listening to some internal voice because he was staring off in a slightly unfocused manner before he shook his head and began speaking rapidly. “Maybe it had something to do with coming to Atlantis…or, oh, I know!” He jumped up a little in his seat and began snapping his fingers rapidly. “We went through the gate! The gate has a translation system that allows us to understand you guys, but if he got mindwiped, then he’d have gone back to the default factory setting-in other words, his own native English. That’s why he could understand me but not you guys. But when we came through the gate, the translation system must have kicked in again…” he trailed off, looking thoughtful.
“What does this mean? That he simply needs some time before his memories come back as well?” Teyla glanced at him briefly before seeking her answer from McKay.
“I don’t know. I doubt it would be that easy, or else the Zolon would not have found it to be such a good means of corporal punishment. And there’s a big difference between comprehending the language and remembering who you are.” McKay looked at him directly and said, “Your name is John Sheppard. You’re a Lt. Colonel in the USAF and the CO of an Earth-based expedition to the Pegasus galaxy.” He waited expectantly for a reaction.
‘John’ glanced back and forth between the other people who all seemed to be watching him with the same hopeful expression. He made a small face, spreading his fingers a little wider as they rested on his thigh as if to say, ‘sorry’.
McKay slumped in his chair. “You see? I might as well be talking to a dog. I bet only one word in seven makes sense to him and the rest just sounds like ‘blah, blah, blah’.”
“Rodney!” Teyla said disapprovingly, but John found himself suddenly grinning. Hah. He was right about the name after all.
The big guy had a sly smile on his face as he shared an amused glance with John. “I’m betting he understands more than you think, McKay.”
****
Rodney stared directly into John's eyes, frowned and then pulled back, watching John's pupils shift and narrow in focus as John tracked his movements. Recognizing the signs of awareness in John's reactions, Rodney was relieved to admit that it seemed like Ronon was right - it did appear that John was still in there somewhere. There was a certain sharpness to his gaze and in the way his eyes had followed Rodney around the room, focusing first on Rodney's face and then on his waving hands as Rodney had tried to explain to Carson what had happened on the planet. Still, Rodney couldn't be completely certain. As much as he tried to always hope for the best, he couldn't help but be something of a pessimist. Life, even before it had brought him to Pegasus, had taught him that if he expected and, more importantly, was prepared for the worst, then it made it all the more likely that he'd survive it. He narrowed his eyes and focused his attention back on John once more. It was going to be okay, he decided firmly. After all, they'd been through this at least a million times before: angry natives, mysterious Ancient devices, almost certain death, and last minute miracles - SOP for Team Sheppard.
Across the infirmary, Rodney could hear that Carson was still deep in consultation with Elizabeth. Teyla and Ronon were standing close by with a vaguely familiar blonde woman whose name Rodney couldn't recall, the three of them listening intently to the conversation. They were, no doubt, still discussing the worrying results of the scans Carson and the blonde had taken of John’s brain - the ones that had indicated that great swathes of John's temporal lobes had been compromised. Rodney grunted to himself in disdain and proceeded to continue ignoring them all, preferring to concentrate on John himself.
It was all rubbish anyway, Rodney told himself angrily. What possible conclusions could be drawn from only a handful of scans? Rodney was no medical doctor, but he was an experienced scientist and, perhaps more importantly, well-used to the unpredictable nature of Ancient devices. He know that it just wasn't possible to take a few isolated pictures of so complex system as the human brain and from them alone determine the extent of someone’s incapacitation. He leaned in a little closer again, studying John's changing expressions as he watched Rodney in turn. No, what was required was that such a system be watched carefully over time; its reactions observed, its variables measured, and as accurate a model as possible constructed of its workings. Only then could the way to repair whatever damage had been wreaked upon it be determined.
Rodney's gaze moved from John's face to the implant still embedded in his right temple, wincing in sympathy as he noticed that the puckered skin around where it had been attached looked red and inflamed. Carson hadn't yet attempted to remove it, preferring to take things slowly and try and look at its effects before embarking on anything proactive. Rodney couldn't fault his reasoning, but he still thought that they were focusing their attention on the wrong thing. It wasn't John's brain that was the problem - it was, if anything, merely a symptom. That implant and the Ancient device, which currently sat in Rodney's lab, were what held the answers, Rodney was sure of it - they were what they needed to be studying.
Rodney shifted his attention back to John's face, leaning closer still and losing himself in John’s seemingly fathomless gaze. There had to be something in there to confirm Rodney's hope that all was not lost, some spark of recognition from John despite his apparent loss of both speech and memory. But, instead of the reassurance he sought, all Rodney succeeded in doing was to lose his balance on his high lab stool. He flailed his arms around, trying desperately to right the stool, but was unable to stop himself from toppling forward.
However, before he could hit the floor, Rodney felt a pair of strong arms catch him, halting his fall and enfolding him close to a strong, warm frame. He felt himself relax as he was held upright, his body recognizing instinctively the man who'd caught him and trusting itself completely to his care. For a few precious moments Rodney did nothing more than luxuriate in the sensation of being in John's arms again, his eyes closing as relief and joy swept through him in turn. Too close, he thought, they'd come far too close to losing John completely this time. Rodney brought his hands up to rest them on John's back, holding John to him and sighing with happiness.
It was the almost immediate freezing of John's body as Rodney returned his embrace - the abrupt tension that suddenly snapped through him and made him go rigid against Rodney - that brought reality crashing back down. Rodney pulled back quickly, heat flooding his face and feeling as awkward and foolish as he had been the first time that John had unexpectedly held him close.
It had started almost two months ago, when Rodney had been seriously injured during a run-in with the Wraith on PX5-TQ7. He'd gone down hard, caught in the leg by a blast from some energy weapon they'd never been able to identify, but which had hurt like hell. The agony he'd experienced had blotted out all other sensations, but before he'd even hit the ground, John had him. John had dropped his own weapon, sparing no thought for his own safety while he'd worked frantically to keep Rodney alive. He'd bound Rodney's leg tightly, staunching the copious flow of blood from the jagged wound, and managed to hoist him into a fireman's lift and carry him the not inconsiderable distance to the gate. Rodney's memories of the incident were blurred and patchy, but he remembered the aftermath of the mission. The slow process of healing, the weeks of painful therapy and John's gaze, heavy and serious on him in the increasingly rare times that they were in the same room as each other.
Rodney had been finally walking normally again by the time he'd managed to corner John - tracking him down to his quarters and pushing his way inside without giving John the time to make up another excuse to avoid him. It had been a bizarre confrontation - starting badly, with Rodney shouting at John, demanding to know what his problem was, feeling anger, hurt and rejection. It had ended, however, with him being kissed within an inch of his life by John, who'd held him so tightly that there'd been visible bruises on his skin for days afterwards. When Rodney had finally snuck out of John's quarters hours later in the dead of night, his uniform crumpled and his body lax with pleasure, he'd felt no less confused, but at least he knew that, for the time being, he was no longer rejected.
It had been the beginning of what had become just another facet to their admittedly complex relationship; their friendship had remained unchanged - as caustic and competitive as it always had been - but now there was this novel element to it. Every now and then, more often than not after a particularly dangerous mission, they'd end up locked together, desperate and needy, losing themselves to the mindless pleasure they could generate by the hot, hard press of their mouths and bodies.
It was something that Rodney had yet to figure out completely and, if he was being entirely honest, was something he was loathe to question too closely lest it should suddenly cease to be. Rodney might be a civilian, but he'd worked for the US military for long enough to know that regulations like DADT were not to be tampered with lightly. Even on Atlantis, light-years away from Earth and under civilian command, the military law was still what ultimately governed the city's military personnel, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard included. So Rodney had guarded his tongue and worked his hardest not to give John any reason for breaking things off between them. Rodney shook his head, annoyed at himself because now here he was, lapsing at the first moment that John was put in danger.
“Damn it,” Rodney cursed under his breath, realizing that not only had he endangered John's position with his inappropriate behavior, but that he'd probably also managed to further traumatize him. “I'm sorry,” he apologized quickly, stepping away from John and holding his hands out in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner. “I didn't mean to, you know, touch you like that... or anything. It's just that you... well, that I... and, uh, you, and, well, what I mean is that we...”
He trailed off as John's confusion appeared to be increasing exponentially. It stood to reason, he supposed, talking had never really been their strong suit - at least not talking about them, about what they were to each other. Or, perhaps more accurately, what they had been - if, indeed they had been anything more than just a regular buddy fuck. Rodney was still a bit fuzzy on that point, and not at all that eager to be enlightened if John saw him as no more than that. Not that he wanted more, per se. Only… well, he did. Or had. Looking over at John now, who was regarding him with quiet and solemn intensity, Rodney acknowledged that it no longer mattered what he and John did or did not have, all that mattered now was getting John well again.
“What did those bastards do to you?” he asked under his breath, aware of the helplessness welling inside him. He quashed it promptly, channeling his worry and fear into the fierce determination which he knew would not let him rest until he had succeeded. “Well, whatever they did, I am going to figure it out and make it right,” he concluded with a self-satisfied nod, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing John with his most determined glare.
At his words, something in John’s expression changed - it wasn’t quite what Rodney would call recognition, or even comprehension, but it was awfully close to both. He felt a small surge of triumph run through him as he realized that John was reacting to him, just as he had down on the planet. It wasn’t much - John just took a few hesitant steps towards him - but it was more than anything John had displayed so far. This time, it looked almost as if John knew Rodney, that John recognized him, knew who he was and understood what he was saying. Rodney held his breath, mentally encouraging John, willing him to do something or say something, anything, to prove that he had retained something of his memories and abilities despite the damage that damn machine had done to his brain.
John came to a halt about a foot away from Rodney, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head to one side. He was no longer simply watching Rodney, John was now actively considering him. After a few moments, all signs of trepidation cleared from John’s expression completely and the beginnings of his familiar smirk started to grace his features. It was such a familiar look that Rodney half-expected John to reach out and clap him on the shoulder; or to lift an eyebrow and drawl something about Rodney’s ego and how it was his turn to save the day, after all. Of course, John did neither of these things, but as Rodney found himself staring once again into John’s hazel eyes, he realized that he was becoming increasingly convinced that John really was still in there. It was only that he was a little bit lost - something which was not too out of the ordinary for him. And, as always, Rodney was here for him, ready to set things right.
****
Unfortunately, the whole Rodney setting things right thing was unavoidably delayed by the pointless bureaucracy fondly known on Atlantis as formal debriefings. Rodney fumed quietly to himself as Elizabeth, Carson, Teyla, Ronon and the blonde proceeded to go over what had happened on the planet yet again; as if they hadn't already discussed it all to death in the infirmary. The blonde turned out to be a medical doctor of some sort, even though she looked to Rodney to be all of twelve, named Keller. And, despite his irritation at the ridiculous waste of time, Rodney supposed he could forgive her both her profession and her age as she did seem to be genuinely committed to helping John. Of course, it also didn't hurt that Rodney couldn't help but notice that she was fairly hot, in a clean-cut college girl sort of way.
“What I don't understand is that if the Zolon intended to enslave John as a punishment for entering their sacred ground, why would they also damage his brain in this manner?” Elizabeth was saying, her question dragging Rodney's mind back to the discussion at hand.
Rodney sighed in irritation and started to fidget in his chair - debriefings always seemed to be interminable, but this one was getting to be ridiculous. Rodney wanted nothing more than to be able to escape down to his lab and start work on the Ancient machine they'd managed to steal from Zolon, but instead he was being forced to sit through yet another run-down of what had happened on P4T-8RQ. The second lengthy discussion of the results of Carson and Keller's preliminary examination of John had been bad enough, but the current musings into the Zolon's motivations for abduction and torture were surely completely pointless. Across the table, Rodney met Ronon's gaze and rolled his eyes. Ronon nodded subtly in agreement, making Rodney feel slightly better about his own impatience. Although very different from one another in their areas of expertise, he and Ronon had always been of the same viewpoint when it came to belaboring the minutiae during meetings - they both infinitely preferred useful action over idle conjecture.
“From what the leader of the Zolon said when John was sentenced,” Teyla replied. “I do not believe the device affected John in the same manner that it has done other Zolon prisoners. Indeed, Rodney,” she continued, turning to look at him as she spoke, “you mentioned that John's gene might have been the reason for the unusual side-effects.”
“Yes,” Rodney snapped. “And if I could have some time to actually investigate the device, instead of just talking about it, I might be able to come up with more than just surface speculation.”
“I understand your desire to get straight to work, Rodney,” Elizabeth said, leaning forward to place a comforting hand on Rodney's arm. “But we need to be especially careful in how we proceed. Regardless of how the device works or what its original purpose might have been, it has left John with serious brain damage.”
“Aye,” Carson agreed, his blue eyes filled with concern as his gaze flicked from Elizabeth to Rodney. “The damage is quite extensive. I will need to do more scans and some tests of Colonel Sheppard's current mental abilities, but from what I've been able to determine so far, his temporal lobes have suffered the greatest impairment.”
“Yes, yes, we get it,” Rodney replied, irritated that they kept having to go over this. “Temporal lobes - speech, memory and hearing impairments. He's completely lost his ability to communicate orally and through writing. We were all there in the infirmary when you scanned him, you know. But what's wrong with him now is not the point, rather the point is what made him this way in the first place: how does it work and how do we get it to reverse what it did.”
“I don't think there's anything wrong with his hearing, either,” Ronon put in. “He seemed to hear everything just fine down on the planet - only trouble was he didn't understand anything we said 'til McKay turned up.”
“Exactly,” Rodney said, snapping his fingers once and pointing at Ronon before turning to scowl at Carson. “And his comprehension became even greater once we traveled through the gate and he was able to make use of the gate's translation system. So, you see, the solution is not in John's brain - it's in the device which is currently sitting in my lab and in that thing sticking out of the side of John's head.”
“Be that as it may, Rodney,” Carson replied. “The damage done to the Colonel's brain may well be permanent, regardless of whether or not we're able to remove the implant or figure out how the device works. We will need to work together on this, Rodney.”
Rodney slumped back into his chair at Carson's words, trying to figure out the best way to proceed. Part of him wanted to continue ranting, to push his own belief that the answer lay in the cleanly cut lines of hard science - his forte - but he knew that he couldn't. There still existed, as painful as it might be for Rodney to admit, the small chance that Carson was right. And, loathe as he was to follow the messy and unpredictable dictates of the soft sciences, he did acknowledge that an investigation from both perspectives probably offered the best chance of success.
“Yes, alright, fine,” he conceded at last. “But I'm going to need some time to investigate the device in my lab before we make any attempts to interface the device with John's implant. I also want to do a thorough trawl of the database to see if we can identify the device - perhaps even find some schematics of it, if we're lucky.”
“Aye, that makes sense, Rodney,” Carson said. “We're also going to need some more time to test the limits of the Colonel's current mental abilities and Jennifer here is going to see if she can get some clearer images of the affected regions of his brain. If we can actually map out the neural pathways compromised, we might even be able to re-generate some of the connections.”
Rodney looked at Carson and Keller intently and then nodded slowly, grudgingly satisfied with the plan of action. “Alright,” he said, turning to look at Elizabeth. “Okay?” he asked her, already half-way out of his seat.
“Yes, Rodney, okay,” she replied with a small smile, waving him off. “Just be sure to keep me posted.”
****
Rodney was within sight of his lab when he heard the sound of running footsteps behind him - two pairs. He sighed inwardly and then stopped abruptly, turning in place to meet his teammates approach with his chin upraised and his arms crossed.
“Yes, I'm okay; yes, I know it's going to be alright and no, you cannot help,” he said quickly before Teyla could so much as open her mouth. “No, wait, scratch that last one,” he amended. “You could get me some coffee, that would be very helpful - some of the good stuff, mind, not that swill they serve in the commissary.”
Ronon ground to a halt in front of Rodney, his own arms coming up to cross over his chest in a mirror of Rodney's pose. He raised an eyebrow at Rodney.
“Please?” Rodney promptly tacked onto the end of his request upon recognizing the exact nature of the light in Ronon's eye.
Ronon grunted and uncrossed his arms. “Better, McKay,” he said.
“Yes, well,” Rodney replied by way of explanation. “I've got rather a lot on my mind at the moment.”
Teyla shot Ronon an amused glance at his posturing before turning her attention back to Rodney. “Are you certain that there is nothing we can do, Rodney?” she asked, her concern palpable.
Rodney sighed again and shook his head. “I don't think there's much anyone can do until we know more about the device and the implant.” He frowned then, recalling John's response to him in the infirmary, and felt the stirrings of an idea start to form. “Although,” he continued slowly, “it might be a good idea for you guys to go see John. You know, talk to him, perhaps show him 'round the city, stuff like that.”
“Try and remind him of his life here, you mean,” Ronon said.
“Yes, exactly,” Rodney replied. He shook his head and frowned again, “I just get the feeling that there is more going on in his brain than we can tell at the moment, despite what the scans might indicate.”
Ronon turned to look at Teyla for a moment, seeking her agreement, before looking back to Rodney. “We can do that,” he said with a grin.
“I'm sure you can,” Rodney replied, rolling his eyes, already able to picture Ronon reacquainting John with the joys of the armory and the gym. “Just go easy on him, okay? Remember, he's operating with even less of his brain than he usually does.”
“Of course we will, Rodney,” Teyla reassured him, fixing Ronon with a stern eye. “You will let us know what you discover?”
“Yes, yes,” Rodney replied, already waving them away. “Oh, and don't forget the coffee!” he shouted out as an after-thought. As he started to turn away to continue down the corridor he saw Ronon grin evilly over his shoulder and make what could only be some crude Satedan hand gesture at him.
“Lovely,” Rodney commented quietly as he entered his lab, amused despite himself. His amusement didn't last long however, for there, sitting in the middle of one of the lab's large equipment tables, was the device the Zolons had used to rob John of his memories and his language. Rodney stared at it for a moment and wondered, not for the first time, how something so seemingly innocuous could be so very damaging.
“Ready to get to work, Rodney?” Radek asked from his position at the far side of the table, his box of tools already open and at the ready beside him.
“Yes,” Rodney replied, taking off his jacket and slinging it onto a nearby chair before grabbing his own equipment, grateful for Radek's understanding that what he needed to do now was concentrate solely on his work. “Let's find out what makes this thing tick.”
****
To Dumbstruck part 2
Authors:sgamadison & the_cephalopod
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~32,000 words
Authors' notes: Written for velocitygrass's 'It's Only Just Begun' Fest on mcsheplets. Many thanks to our wonderful betas - bluespirit_star, rissabby, and zinfic - all of whom have made this story much better. We also have to say an enormous THANK YOU to the amazingly talented bluespirit_star for creating the beautiful cover for the story. We are completely overwhelmed by how utterly perfect it is and cannot thank you enough. *hugs* Everyone, please do go tell her here how stunning her artwork is.
Summary: His existence, as he remembered it, began eleven days ago. He knew the word day was what to call the cycle between a single span of sunlight and darkness, but he could not remember what groupings of days were called. He didn’t think it mattered much.
Dumbstruck
Part One
The ground was hard and the rough wooden handle of the tool felt odd and unfamiliar in his hands. He looked down at them, raw and reddened in the cold morning air and then a shout had him looking up again. The man yelling at him from the side of the field was speaking in a language incomprehensible to him, but he knew what the other man intended just the same. Keep working. Work or you do not eat. Work or we will hit you.
Whatever, a corner of his mind supplied, and he tightened his grip on the handle. The handle of the hoe. The word came to him suddenly, as words sometimes did, in a burst of illumination, only to leave him feeling flat and cold when the insight changed nothing. Whatever it was called, it was still a tool in his hands with which he was to dig holes in the semi-frozen ground. It wasn’t even the right time of the year to plant things-though how he knew this, he wasn’t sure. This was just busy-work, something that you made the newbies do, to teach them unquestioning obedience. He knew that too, knew instinctively he’d been through something similar before, recognized as well that what he was experiencing now was inherently different.
He just didn’t know different how.
His existence, as he remembered it, began eleven days ago. He knew the word day was what to call the cycle between a single span of sunlight and darkness, but he could not remember what groupings of days were called. He didn’t think it mattered much. Not as much as noting that the calluses on his hands did not match the blisters that he was developing, or that he and the other people who worked the fields all had a shiny implant embedded into the right side of their heads or that he was the only one of the workers that did not seem to understand the language. Or that he was the only one who ever got angry.
The other workers seemed passive in their chores. Oh sure, they hated the cold, and working in the fields without the proper clothing (gear, his brain supplied) and the fact that they weren’t getting much to eat. But he seemed to be the only one who objected, who resisted, who fought back when pushed around.
He’d gotten punched and beaten a few times before he'd learned to hide the anger. Watch and learn. He could do that. The men who supervised the fieldwork had seemed to relax a bit after that, though they were quick to warn him if they thought he was getting out of line again. At night, after the workers had eaten and crawled wearily into the communal hut for sleeping, he would lie awake and wonder about who he was and who he had been. He’d thought about leaving this place but his mind teased him with thoughts of where-at least here he had food and shelter of a sort. He didn’t have enough information yet. He needed to wait. Sometimes odd thoughts and memories would come to him in the early morning hours-in that tiny window between sleeping and waking. He began to crave that small slice of time, but to pursue it too vigorously was to watch it slip through his fingers like the silt in the bottom of the creek bed.
He’d risen early that morning and gone to the creek for water without being told, drinking from the ice cold stream on his hands and knees before filling the water buckets. Like a dog, he’d thought and the image of a large, black animal leapt into his mind-blocky, square-cut head and muzzle, lolling tongue, floppy ears. It was the expression of the creature that captivated him in his sudden vision though. The exuberant expectation of ‘we’re going to do something fun’. He’d known somehow that there were no dogs here and that thought depressed him somewhat.
He’d come back with the water buckets and set them up in their place so that the workers would find them when they rose, and then he’d begun efficiently starting the campfire that would be used to make the tik-tik that the others drank. It had taken him a while to get used to the syrupy sweetness of the boiled tik-tik root, but it went a long way to offsetting the nauseating, glutinous mess that served as breakfast. He’d learned to eat that too, discovering that it was necessary in order to put in a full day’s work. He’d been pretty sure he’d had worse. The first time he’d eaten it, he’d gotten a mental image a man eating a similar looking glop of food and hearing himself say, “You really like that stuff?”
At least, he thought it had been him speaking. His brain seemed to suggest that it was, but he’d never actually heard himself talk. Oh he tried, but the words would not come to him. His mouth would open, but nothing would come out.
So he’d concentrated instead on the image of the other man-long, sharp nose, thin mobile lips, penetrating blue eyes. An engaging grin (though his brain also suggested this was not always the case). He told himself that this other guy was important, because he looked so different from the workers-in dress, in coloring, in overall appearance. It had to mean something.
That morning, as he’d poked at the fire with a stick and gotten the tik-tik going, the cloth flap covering the door to the hut had opened and Fred had come out. At least, that’s what he called the guy in his head-he had to call him something. Fred was tall with long, reddish-brown hair and a full beard and had been in the camp long enough to intimidate the newer arrivals into giving him most of their outer garments. Fred had stepped out into the frosty air stretching, small clouds of vapor released as he breathed. He had straightened and looked over at the fire with a smoldering glance.
Fred was a potential problem. He’d tended the fire without looking up; ignoring the stare that Fred was giving him. Most of the other workers left him alone-the language barrier was a big factor in that. But he’d also discovered, one night when he’d broken up a scuffle over food, that he had unusual fighting skills compared to the other workers. The Bourne Identity, his mind suggested, but the words proved meaningless to him-there was simply nothing further to grasp beyond the phrase itself. The workers had granted him some respectful space after that. Fred, however, had made it very obvious that he was interested in the newbie that couldn’t speak. The first time Fred had cupped his ass and had gotten a fistful of knuckles in return hadn’t deterred him much. Fred still cast a lustful eye in his direction most days.
The thing was, he wasn’t opposed to sex with men in principle-he knew that too somehow. He could tell which workers were horrified by the idea as well as the ones that submitted out of fear. Sometimes in that early morning time, he could almost picture someone lying close and warm beside him, could smell familiar skin if he just turned his head, could reach down and close his own hand over the hand slowly jacking him off. That the person next to him was masculine and not feminine didn’t seem to matter. Those brief moments of memory were the best part of his day.
But Fred bore watching. Sooner or later, Fred was going to challenge him in some way, either over sex or because Fred needed to feel like he was the strongest guy in the bunch. When that day came, he’d have to decide how to respond. Until then, he’d just keep his head down and try not to attract any more attention.
He dug the hard ground slowly, pausing to glance up at the sun. A long way to go before the day warmed up or they could expect any food. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and ducked the blow before it landed on his shoulder. It was the field supervisor; face red with either cold or anger, shaking a fist and yelling at him, no doubt for not working very enthusiastically. He stared back as he leaned on the hoe handle, feeling one eyebrow rise and noting that this seemed to raise the supervisor’s blood pressure as well. His brain positively itched to say something suitably smart-assed to the man raging at him, while at the same time acknowledging that it was probably just as well that he couldn’t speak because, yeah, making a smart-assed comment was probably not the brightest thing he could’ve done at the moment.
The supervisor raised a fist to strike him and he rapidly weighed the risk:benefit ratio of blocking the blow with the handle of the hoe. Before he could act however, there came a curious whine and a ‘whump’ of sound and then the supervisor arched his back and his entire body briefly lit with a reddish glow that crawled over him like flames licking a log on the fire. He collapsed in a heap on the ground.
The other workers ran screaming from the field, but he dropped to the ground beside the supervisor, using the prone body as a shield as he peered up and over at the source of the blast. The supervisor was still alive and had no apparent injuries. Stunned. But by what?
He soon got his answer. From the tree line, a huge man came running in his direction, weapon drawn. As the man approached, he could see that this man was different from either the supervisor or the workers, skin darker in color and hair matted up in locks that looked like a lion’s mane. The image of a lion with those same greenish-gold eyes flashed before him as he rolled to his feet and swung the hoe into a defensive posture. The lion man was followed by a lithe, athletic looking woman, who held an impressive weapon at the ready, obviously covering their approach.
The man frowned and came to a halt as the hoe came up. He began to speak in a growling voice. The woman joined him and began to speak quietly while the lion man looked obviously impatient. As he watched, the man touched something in his ear and spoke again, but it didn’t seem like he was talking to the woman. The woman stepped forward and held out a hand in a placating manner. He raised his eyebrow again. It wasn’t like he was really in a position to defend himself if they decided to shoot him, but they didn’t seem to be angry with him. He couldn’t help but be interested in what was going on. It suddenly occurred to him that this was what he’d been waiting for-but he still did not know how to respond.
The big guy spoke to the air again and then reached out to take him by the arm. He blocked the move with the hoe handle and watched as the other man tightened his mouth and grabbed at the handle, forcing the two of them into a tug of war. It was no real contest: the arms of the other guy bulged with muscles and with an interesting little twist the hoe was wrenched out of his sore hands and tossed aside. The woman adjusted her weapon so that it was in a neutral position and then approached him again, hands open, palms up, speaking in a soothing tone, the way to approach a wild pony.
Pony conjured up a sturdy beast with a coat shining like a copper penny, which reminded him of this woman’s hair and then the memory galloped away into nothingness. The woman seemed to be pleading with him. He watched both people warily. Nothing he’d learned so far in the last eleven days had taught him much good about people in general, but there had to be something better out there, he knew that. He also thought it odd that neither the man nor the woman spoke the language of the workers, or the even same language between them and that was another little strange bit to the puzzle that he found interesting.
The door to the hut flew open and Fred came charging out with a battle cry and swinging a length of wood. All three watched as the Fred ran ferociously towards them and he found himself thinking ‘wait for it, wait for it,’ until the lion man casually raised his arm, the muscles standing out in sharp relief as though carved in wood, the huge weapon steady in his hand. Fred had a moment of pulling up abruptly, but too late. The weapon discharged and Fred collapsed in the same manner as the supervisor, a look of surprise on his face.
He couldn’t help it, he laughed. The lion man turned his head sharply to look at him and then grinned. It felt right somehow.
Something in the air nearby changed the pressure around them; he was the first to look up and was in time to see the air shimmer and waver (like the heat coming off the asphalt on a hot summer day) and amazingly, a large box-like structure hovered in the air above them before making a slightly wobbly descent to the ground. Once it touched down, a rear compartment door lowered and an agitated man appeared in the entranceway.
“Come on, come on, I got the device, let’s hurry up and get out of here before the locals show up with their pitchforks.” The man was waving his arms urgently and he felt his mouth fall open at his understanding of the words. “Is he alright?” The man continued anxiously. “Ohmygod, John, are you alright?” The man came down the ramp and locked eyes with him and he felt a jolt of recognition as he saw those blue eyes peering at him in concern. It was the man from his memory of the bland food and he wanted to reach out for him and say, “hey, I know you,” but the words didn’t come.
The woman was speaking again, but the man with the blue eyes didn’t appear to be listening. Instead he was staring with narrowed eyes and the man suddenly reached out and touched the silver node on the side of his head. Pain arced through him and he arched back just like the people who had been stunned, crying out inarticulately before dropping to the ground and twitching.
The other man appeared to have been shocked as well; he yelped and cursed and then was suddenly kneeling at his side, stroking his arm, his shoulder, his hair and saying over and over, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t know that would happen, I’m going to fix it, I promise.”
Despite the fact that this guy had just caused him excruciating pain, something in him believed the man. Maybe because the guy was so upset. He tried to say with his eyes, ‘It’s ok, but just don’t do that again,’ and he got a tense smile in return. He started to get to his feet and felt a firm grip under one arm helping him up. The other guy didn’t let go when they were both standing and he felt the need to frown and pull back a bit.
“No, no, you’ve got to come with us,” the other man said, never taking those intense eyes off his face. “Look, we’ve got to hurry-I’ve performed all sorts of illegal acts on your behalf-Elizabeth might well have my head on a platter when we get back to Atlantis. You know how she gets when she thinks diplomacy has a snowball's chance in hell of working. This is your big escape-c’mon.” The last word was delivered with urgency and another tug on his arm.
Something about the word Atlantis resonated within him, a hum, a harmonic, a song that he didn’t understand but seemed like home. Home felt like a place he wanted to be.
The big guy said something and the man holding his arm snapped over his shoulder in response, “No, we are not going to stun him, Ronon. Brute force is not the answer to everything. Besides, we have no idea what stunning might do to that implant and I don’t want to risk frying what little brains he has left.”
He reached out and pushed the guy on the shoulder, protesting the comment with his expression as he pulled his arm free from the grip. The guy turned a look of confusion and dawning hope on him that made him feel uncomfortable, so he looked away. The woman was speaking quietly again, obviously talking to both men and he got the feeling that she did this a lot; that she was the voice of reason that was frequently ignored. He found himself giving her a rueful grin and she looked a little startled before she smiled back. She touched the man with blue eyes on the arm and spoke again.
The man said in an aside over his shoulder, “Yes, yes, Teyla, I think you’re right.” He focused that penetrating stare again, only this time there seemed to be sorrow and pleading embedded in it as well. “Look, John, that’s your name, okay? John Sheppard.”
No, John Doe is what you call someone with no identity.
“Teyla thinks you can understand something of what I’m saying and so do I, only I don’t know how much. The important thing here is that we’re your friends, see?” The guy somehow managed to imbue the word friends with so much more, but it was nebulous and frothy and did nothing to sustain him. “We’re here to rescue you. Oh god.” He turned away and began to speak rapidly to the other people. “This is all my fault-this should be me here and not him.”
The big guy rumbled something again and the other man snarled, “We are not shooting him! How many times do I have to say that? Are you deaf or just willfully ignoring me?”
He looked back and forth at the two men glaring angrily at each other and tossed up his hands at shoulder height in a gesture of both ‘pax’ and surrender. The man with the blue eyes beamed at him suddenly. “Wait, he’s decided to come with us. Okay, that’s great. Let’s go, then. Chop, chop. Hurry, before the Mongol hordes appear on the horizon.”
He followed them to the back of the vehicle that his brain told him shouldn’t be able to fly, much less hover, but another part of his head told him not to worry about it. He instinctively made for a seat near the viewscreen up front, but the man with the blue eyes took him by the arm and gently seated him in the opposite chair. “Not that I don’t trust your flying skills right now, but well, I don’t, not entirely.”
The big man said something deep and growling from the seat behind them and the woman popped him sharply on arm with the back of one hand. He cast a glance to check the big guy’s reaction, but he was grinning at the woman.
He watched, fascinated, as the man with the blue eyes went through the motions of lift-off, a green, lighted display appearing like magic before his eyes in the air in front of him, his hands moving (like a concert pianist) over the control console, flipping switches and bringing the little ship around to fly off in a different direction than it had been facing. He found himself grinning when the man looked over at him and the man smiled crookedly back at him, though the smile still looked painful somehow.
The man at the controls kept sneaking looks at him as the ship climbed higher into the sky and he finally pointed rudely at the viewscreen and tapped it impatiently. The blue-eyed man opened his mouth to say something but the big guy in the back laughed loudly and said something that caused him to clamp his lips shut tightly instead. The sky outside began to darken and then the stars appeared. A single word of awe and pleasure hovered around his brain, looking for a way out, but to no avail. He sat in silence and appreciated the view instead.
The man in the back said something again and the man at the controls spoke sharply in return. “I don’t know yet, okay? I just barely got a look at it before it pulled a Frankenstein number on me with the electricity thing, and you saw what that did to him. I’m going to have to get the device back to Atlantis and study it further before we attempt anything else just yet.”
The woman said something and the man at the controls answered her, but stared straight at him instead, looking at him as though he were some sort of odd puzzle that needed solving. “I think you’re right, Teyla. Whatever the Zolon meant for the device to do, it didn’t quite work as expected on him. He may not know who he is, or who we are,” and his voice carried a note of sadness there, “but he’s still in there. At least, some of his personality remains.”
A rumbling growl came from the back and the man with blue eyes tore his gaze away to speak over his shoulder. “I thought of that, and yes, you’re undoubtedly right. Of course, we don’t know what the Ancients intended when they created it in the first place, but I’m sure it wasn’t designed to be used the way the Zolon did-for the punishment of prisoners.”
Teyla said something that sounded encouraging and the man with blue eyes gave a heavy sigh. “We’ll have to search the database first and see if we can determine what the original function was-then I need to see if the device has been altered in any way by the Zolon or if it works differently on people with the ATA gene than everyone else. Or if the implant somehow acts to suppress the individual’s personality. We just don’t have enough information yet.”
Teyla spoke again and the man’s shoulders slumped. “I know, I know. We’ll just have to stall for time. The Daedalus isn’t due for at least a month-we’ve probably got until then before Elizabeth is forced to make a decision.” He straightened, suddenly looking very determined. “I will fix this. You can count on it. Okay, we’re coming up on the gate-dial it up, Teyla.”
Teyla came forward between the two chairs and began punching symbols on a raised, round platform in the middle of the console. She smiled at him as she approached, but all he could think of as he watched her small, brown hand was the memory of sitting across from another boy with a similar row of buttons on a game board between them, waiting his turn as the buttons lit up in a pattern and he tried to duplicate them. The other boy in the memory looked up at him and he knew the boy’s name, but he could not get the word to form in his brain.
As Teyla punched in the final button, the man with the blue eyes turned that crooked grin in his direction and said, “Get ready for the show.”
Ahead of them in space, a large ring hung suspended in the void. As he watched, lights began to fire on the side of the ring and suddenly there was a great out-rushing of blue energy into the space in front of them, only to leap back into the ring and hover in a shimmering wave within. That word of awe stirred in the back of his mind again, but refused to come out and play.
“Thank god, it’s all on autopilot from here,” the man at the console said with a large sigh as the ship lined itself up for the ring of light.
Rodney, he thought. Your name is Rodney.
He felt a momentary surge of satisfaction before a wave of depression nearly swamped him. How did he know he wasn’t just making that up, the way he’d named Fred?
The ship was on a course for the ring and then suddenly seemed sucked into it. He felt an intense cold and then a sensation of being pulled in all directions before he was suddenly released to find himself sitting in the same seat as before. Only they were no longer in space but hovering just inside a large room. A beautiful room. From what he could see, the ceilings stretched to the sky and it was all sunlight and warmth and color and prisms and geometric design and a thousand voices that began murmuring to him all at once.
Welcome home, John. Welcome home.
The ship didn’t stay in that room, however. The small craft rose vertically and then went through an opening in the roof, taking them into what was obviously a place to store the little ships. A parking garage. When they landed, the big guy in the back spoke once more.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about what Weir will say, McKay,” the big man said. “She’ll come around pretty quick, you’ll see.”
He felt a momentary disappointment at getting the blue-eyed man's name wrong before it registered that he’d understood the lion man this time. He turned his head sharply to look at him.
Teyla was watching him and she leaned forward in her seat. “John? Can you understand us now?”
He nodded his head to indicate he did.
“I don’t get it. What changed? Back on the planet he acted like he could only understand you, McKay.” The big guy was frowning again.
McKay seemed to be listening to some internal voice because he was staring off in a slightly unfocused manner before he shook his head and began speaking rapidly. “Maybe it had something to do with coming to Atlantis…or, oh, I know!” He jumped up a little in his seat and began snapping his fingers rapidly. “We went through the gate! The gate has a translation system that allows us to understand you guys, but if he got mindwiped, then he’d have gone back to the default factory setting-in other words, his own native English. That’s why he could understand me but not you guys. But when we came through the gate, the translation system must have kicked in again…” he trailed off, looking thoughtful.
“What does this mean? That he simply needs some time before his memories come back as well?” Teyla glanced at him briefly before seeking her answer from McKay.
“I don’t know. I doubt it would be that easy, or else the Zolon would not have found it to be such a good means of corporal punishment. And there’s a big difference between comprehending the language and remembering who you are.” McKay looked at him directly and said, “Your name is John Sheppard. You’re a Lt. Colonel in the USAF and the CO of an Earth-based expedition to the Pegasus galaxy.” He waited expectantly for a reaction.
‘John’ glanced back and forth between the other people who all seemed to be watching him with the same hopeful expression. He made a small face, spreading his fingers a little wider as they rested on his thigh as if to say, ‘sorry’.
McKay slumped in his chair. “You see? I might as well be talking to a dog. I bet only one word in seven makes sense to him and the rest just sounds like ‘blah, blah, blah’.”
“Rodney!” Teyla said disapprovingly, but John found himself suddenly grinning. Hah. He was right about the name after all.
The big guy had a sly smile on his face as he shared an amused glance with John. “I’m betting he understands more than you think, McKay.”
****
Rodney stared directly into John's eyes, frowned and then pulled back, watching John's pupils shift and narrow in focus as John tracked his movements. Recognizing the signs of awareness in John's reactions, Rodney was relieved to admit that it seemed like Ronon was right - it did appear that John was still in there somewhere. There was a certain sharpness to his gaze and in the way his eyes had followed Rodney around the room, focusing first on Rodney's face and then on his waving hands as Rodney had tried to explain to Carson what had happened on the planet. Still, Rodney couldn't be completely certain. As much as he tried to always hope for the best, he couldn't help but be something of a pessimist. Life, even before it had brought him to Pegasus, had taught him that if he expected and, more importantly, was prepared for the worst, then it made it all the more likely that he'd survive it. He narrowed his eyes and focused his attention back on John once more. It was going to be okay, he decided firmly. After all, they'd been through this at least a million times before: angry natives, mysterious Ancient devices, almost certain death, and last minute miracles - SOP for Team Sheppard.
Across the infirmary, Rodney could hear that Carson was still deep in consultation with Elizabeth. Teyla and Ronon were standing close by with a vaguely familiar blonde woman whose name Rodney couldn't recall, the three of them listening intently to the conversation. They were, no doubt, still discussing the worrying results of the scans Carson and the blonde had taken of John’s brain - the ones that had indicated that great swathes of John's temporal lobes had been compromised. Rodney grunted to himself in disdain and proceeded to continue ignoring them all, preferring to concentrate on John himself.
It was all rubbish anyway, Rodney told himself angrily. What possible conclusions could be drawn from only a handful of scans? Rodney was no medical doctor, but he was an experienced scientist and, perhaps more importantly, well-used to the unpredictable nature of Ancient devices. He know that it just wasn't possible to take a few isolated pictures of so complex system as the human brain and from them alone determine the extent of someone’s incapacitation. He leaned in a little closer again, studying John's changing expressions as he watched Rodney in turn. No, what was required was that such a system be watched carefully over time; its reactions observed, its variables measured, and as accurate a model as possible constructed of its workings. Only then could the way to repair whatever damage had been wreaked upon it be determined.
Rodney's gaze moved from John's face to the implant still embedded in his right temple, wincing in sympathy as he noticed that the puckered skin around where it had been attached looked red and inflamed. Carson hadn't yet attempted to remove it, preferring to take things slowly and try and look at its effects before embarking on anything proactive. Rodney couldn't fault his reasoning, but he still thought that they were focusing their attention on the wrong thing. It wasn't John's brain that was the problem - it was, if anything, merely a symptom. That implant and the Ancient device, which currently sat in Rodney's lab, were what held the answers, Rodney was sure of it - they were what they needed to be studying.
Rodney shifted his attention back to John's face, leaning closer still and losing himself in John’s seemingly fathomless gaze. There had to be something in there to confirm Rodney's hope that all was not lost, some spark of recognition from John despite his apparent loss of both speech and memory. But, instead of the reassurance he sought, all Rodney succeeded in doing was to lose his balance on his high lab stool. He flailed his arms around, trying desperately to right the stool, but was unable to stop himself from toppling forward.
However, before he could hit the floor, Rodney felt a pair of strong arms catch him, halting his fall and enfolding him close to a strong, warm frame. He felt himself relax as he was held upright, his body recognizing instinctively the man who'd caught him and trusting itself completely to his care. For a few precious moments Rodney did nothing more than luxuriate in the sensation of being in John's arms again, his eyes closing as relief and joy swept through him in turn. Too close, he thought, they'd come far too close to losing John completely this time. Rodney brought his hands up to rest them on John's back, holding John to him and sighing with happiness.
It was the almost immediate freezing of John's body as Rodney returned his embrace - the abrupt tension that suddenly snapped through him and made him go rigid against Rodney - that brought reality crashing back down. Rodney pulled back quickly, heat flooding his face and feeling as awkward and foolish as he had been the first time that John had unexpectedly held him close.
It had started almost two months ago, when Rodney had been seriously injured during a run-in with the Wraith on PX5-TQ7. He'd gone down hard, caught in the leg by a blast from some energy weapon they'd never been able to identify, but which had hurt like hell. The agony he'd experienced had blotted out all other sensations, but before he'd even hit the ground, John had him. John had dropped his own weapon, sparing no thought for his own safety while he'd worked frantically to keep Rodney alive. He'd bound Rodney's leg tightly, staunching the copious flow of blood from the jagged wound, and managed to hoist him into a fireman's lift and carry him the not inconsiderable distance to the gate. Rodney's memories of the incident were blurred and patchy, but he remembered the aftermath of the mission. The slow process of healing, the weeks of painful therapy and John's gaze, heavy and serious on him in the increasingly rare times that they were in the same room as each other.
Rodney had been finally walking normally again by the time he'd managed to corner John - tracking him down to his quarters and pushing his way inside without giving John the time to make up another excuse to avoid him. It had been a bizarre confrontation - starting badly, with Rodney shouting at John, demanding to know what his problem was, feeling anger, hurt and rejection. It had ended, however, with him being kissed within an inch of his life by John, who'd held him so tightly that there'd been visible bruises on his skin for days afterwards. When Rodney had finally snuck out of John's quarters hours later in the dead of night, his uniform crumpled and his body lax with pleasure, he'd felt no less confused, but at least he knew that, for the time being, he was no longer rejected.
It had been the beginning of what had become just another facet to their admittedly complex relationship; their friendship had remained unchanged - as caustic and competitive as it always had been - but now there was this novel element to it. Every now and then, more often than not after a particularly dangerous mission, they'd end up locked together, desperate and needy, losing themselves to the mindless pleasure they could generate by the hot, hard press of their mouths and bodies.
It was something that Rodney had yet to figure out completely and, if he was being entirely honest, was something he was loathe to question too closely lest it should suddenly cease to be. Rodney might be a civilian, but he'd worked for the US military for long enough to know that regulations like DADT were not to be tampered with lightly. Even on Atlantis, light-years away from Earth and under civilian command, the military law was still what ultimately governed the city's military personnel, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard included. So Rodney had guarded his tongue and worked his hardest not to give John any reason for breaking things off between them. Rodney shook his head, annoyed at himself because now here he was, lapsing at the first moment that John was put in danger.
“Damn it,” Rodney cursed under his breath, realizing that not only had he endangered John's position with his inappropriate behavior, but that he'd probably also managed to further traumatize him. “I'm sorry,” he apologized quickly, stepping away from John and holding his hands out in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner. “I didn't mean to, you know, touch you like that... or anything. It's just that you... well, that I... and, uh, you, and, well, what I mean is that we...”
He trailed off as John's confusion appeared to be increasing exponentially. It stood to reason, he supposed, talking had never really been their strong suit - at least not talking about them, about what they were to each other. Or, perhaps more accurately, what they had been - if, indeed they had been anything more than just a regular buddy fuck. Rodney was still a bit fuzzy on that point, and not at all that eager to be enlightened if John saw him as no more than that. Not that he wanted more, per se. Only… well, he did. Or had. Looking over at John now, who was regarding him with quiet and solemn intensity, Rodney acknowledged that it no longer mattered what he and John did or did not have, all that mattered now was getting John well again.
“What did those bastards do to you?” he asked under his breath, aware of the helplessness welling inside him. He quashed it promptly, channeling his worry and fear into the fierce determination which he knew would not let him rest until he had succeeded. “Well, whatever they did, I am going to figure it out and make it right,” he concluded with a self-satisfied nod, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing John with his most determined glare.
At his words, something in John’s expression changed - it wasn’t quite what Rodney would call recognition, or even comprehension, but it was awfully close to both. He felt a small surge of triumph run through him as he realized that John was reacting to him, just as he had down on the planet. It wasn’t much - John just took a few hesitant steps towards him - but it was more than anything John had displayed so far. This time, it looked almost as if John knew Rodney, that John recognized him, knew who he was and understood what he was saying. Rodney held his breath, mentally encouraging John, willing him to do something or say something, anything, to prove that he had retained something of his memories and abilities despite the damage that damn machine had done to his brain.
John came to a halt about a foot away from Rodney, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head to one side. He was no longer simply watching Rodney, John was now actively considering him. After a few moments, all signs of trepidation cleared from John’s expression completely and the beginnings of his familiar smirk started to grace his features. It was such a familiar look that Rodney half-expected John to reach out and clap him on the shoulder; or to lift an eyebrow and drawl something about Rodney’s ego and how it was his turn to save the day, after all. Of course, John did neither of these things, but as Rodney found himself staring once again into John’s hazel eyes, he realized that he was becoming increasingly convinced that John really was still in there. It was only that he was a little bit lost - something which was not too out of the ordinary for him. And, as always, Rodney was here for him, ready to set things right.
****
Unfortunately, the whole Rodney setting things right thing was unavoidably delayed by the pointless bureaucracy fondly known on Atlantis as formal debriefings. Rodney fumed quietly to himself as Elizabeth, Carson, Teyla, Ronon and the blonde proceeded to go over what had happened on the planet yet again; as if they hadn't already discussed it all to death in the infirmary. The blonde turned out to be a medical doctor of some sort, even though she looked to Rodney to be all of twelve, named Keller. And, despite his irritation at the ridiculous waste of time, Rodney supposed he could forgive her both her profession and her age as she did seem to be genuinely committed to helping John. Of course, it also didn't hurt that Rodney couldn't help but notice that she was fairly hot, in a clean-cut college girl sort of way.
“What I don't understand is that if the Zolon intended to enslave John as a punishment for entering their sacred ground, why would they also damage his brain in this manner?” Elizabeth was saying, her question dragging Rodney's mind back to the discussion at hand.
Rodney sighed in irritation and started to fidget in his chair - debriefings always seemed to be interminable, but this one was getting to be ridiculous. Rodney wanted nothing more than to be able to escape down to his lab and start work on the Ancient machine they'd managed to steal from Zolon, but instead he was being forced to sit through yet another run-down of what had happened on P4T-8RQ. The second lengthy discussion of the results of Carson and Keller's preliminary examination of John had been bad enough, but the current musings into the Zolon's motivations for abduction and torture were surely completely pointless. Across the table, Rodney met Ronon's gaze and rolled his eyes. Ronon nodded subtly in agreement, making Rodney feel slightly better about his own impatience. Although very different from one another in their areas of expertise, he and Ronon had always been of the same viewpoint when it came to belaboring the minutiae during meetings - they both infinitely preferred useful action over idle conjecture.
“From what the leader of the Zolon said when John was sentenced,” Teyla replied. “I do not believe the device affected John in the same manner that it has done other Zolon prisoners. Indeed, Rodney,” she continued, turning to look at him as she spoke, “you mentioned that John's gene might have been the reason for the unusual side-effects.”
“Yes,” Rodney snapped. “And if I could have some time to actually investigate the device, instead of just talking about it, I might be able to come up with more than just surface speculation.”
“I understand your desire to get straight to work, Rodney,” Elizabeth said, leaning forward to place a comforting hand on Rodney's arm. “But we need to be especially careful in how we proceed. Regardless of how the device works or what its original purpose might have been, it has left John with serious brain damage.”
“Aye,” Carson agreed, his blue eyes filled with concern as his gaze flicked from Elizabeth to Rodney. “The damage is quite extensive. I will need to do more scans and some tests of Colonel Sheppard's current mental abilities, but from what I've been able to determine so far, his temporal lobes have suffered the greatest impairment.”
“Yes, yes, we get it,” Rodney replied, irritated that they kept having to go over this. “Temporal lobes - speech, memory and hearing impairments. He's completely lost his ability to communicate orally and through writing. We were all there in the infirmary when you scanned him, you know. But what's wrong with him now is not the point, rather the point is what made him this way in the first place: how does it work and how do we get it to reverse what it did.”
“I don't think there's anything wrong with his hearing, either,” Ronon put in. “He seemed to hear everything just fine down on the planet - only trouble was he didn't understand anything we said 'til McKay turned up.”
“Exactly,” Rodney said, snapping his fingers once and pointing at Ronon before turning to scowl at Carson. “And his comprehension became even greater once we traveled through the gate and he was able to make use of the gate's translation system. So, you see, the solution is not in John's brain - it's in the device which is currently sitting in my lab and in that thing sticking out of the side of John's head.”
“Be that as it may, Rodney,” Carson replied. “The damage done to the Colonel's brain may well be permanent, regardless of whether or not we're able to remove the implant or figure out how the device works. We will need to work together on this, Rodney.”
Rodney slumped back into his chair at Carson's words, trying to figure out the best way to proceed. Part of him wanted to continue ranting, to push his own belief that the answer lay in the cleanly cut lines of hard science - his forte - but he knew that he couldn't. There still existed, as painful as it might be for Rodney to admit, the small chance that Carson was right. And, loathe as he was to follow the messy and unpredictable dictates of the soft sciences, he did acknowledge that an investigation from both perspectives probably offered the best chance of success.
“Yes, alright, fine,” he conceded at last. “But I'm going to need some time to investigate the device in my lab before we make any attempts to interface the device with John's implant. I also want to do a thorough trawl of the database to see if we can identify the device - perhaps even find some schematics of it, if we're lucky.”
“Aye, that makes sense, Rodney,” Carson said. “We're also going to need some more time to test the limits of the Colonel's current mental abilities and Jennifer here is going to see if she can get some clearer images of the affected regions of his brain. If we can actually map out the neural pathways compromised, we might even be able to re-generate some of the connections.”
Rodney looked at Carson and Keller intently and then nodded slowly, grudgingly satisfied with the plan of action. “Alright,” he said, turning to look at Elizabeth. “Okay?” he asked her, already half-way out of his seat.
“Yes, Rodney, okay,” she replied with a small smile, waving him off. “Just be sure to keep me posted.”
****
Rodney was within sight of his lab when he heard the sound of running footsteps behind him - two pairs. He sighed inwardly and then stopped abruptly, turning in place to meet his teammates approach with his chin upraised and his arms crossed.
“Yes, I'm okay; yes, I know it's going to be alright and no, you cannot help,” he said quickly before Teyla could so much as open her mouth. “No, wait, scratch that last one,” he amended. “You could get me some coffee, that would be very helpful - some of the good stuff, mind, not that swill they serve in the commissary.”
Ronon ground to a halt in front of Rodney, his own arms coming up to cross over his chest in a mirror of Rodney's pose. He raised an eyebrow at Rodney.
“Please?” Rodney promptly tacked onto the end of his request upon recognizing the exact nature of the light in Ronon's eye.
Ronon grunted and uncrossed his arms. “Better, McKay,” he said.
“Yes, well,” Rodney replied by way of explanation. “I've got rather a lot on my mind at the moment.”
Teyla shot Ronon an amused glance at his posturing before turning her attention back to Rodney. “Are you certain that there is nothing we can do, Rodney?” she asked, her concern palpable.
Rodney sighed again and shook his head. “I don't think there's much anyone can do until we know more about the device and the implant.” He frowned then, recalling John's response to him in the infirmary, and felt the stirrings of an idea start to form. “Although,” he continued slowly, “it might be a good idea for you guys to go see John. You know, talk to him, perhaps show him 'round the city, stuff like that.”
“Try and remind him of his life here, you mean,” Ronon said.
“Yes, exactly,” Rodney replied. He shook his head and frowned again, “I just get the feeling that there is more going on in his brain than we can tell at the moment, despite what the scans might indicate.”
Ronon turned to look at Teyla for a moment, seeking her agreement, before looking back to Rodney. “We can do that,” he said with a grin.
“I'm sure you can,” Rodney replied, rolling his eyes, already able to picture Ronon reacquainting John with the joys of the armory and the gym. “Just go easy on him, okay? Remember, he's operating with even less of his brain than he usually does.”
“Of course we will, Rodney,” Teyla reassured him, fixing Ronon with a stern eye. “You will let us know what you discover?”
“Yes, yes,” Rodney replied, already waving them away. “Oh, and don't forget the coffee!” he shouted out as an after-thought. As he started to turn away to continue down the corridor he saw Ronon grin evilly over his shoulder and make what could only be some crude Satedan hand gesture at him.
“Lovely,” Rodney commented quietly as he entered his lab, amused despite himself. His amusement didn't last long however, for there, sitting in the middle of one of the lab's large equipment tables, was the device the Zolons had used to rob John of his memories and his language. Rodney stared at it for a moment and wondered, not for the first time, how something so seemingly innocuous could be so very damaging.
“Ready to get to work, Rodney?” Radek asked from his position at the far side of the table, his box of tools already open and at the ready beside him.
“Yes,” Rodney replied, taking off his jacket and slinging it onto a nearby chair before grabbing his own equipment, grateful for Radek's understanding that what he needed to do now was concentrate solely on his work. “Let's find out what makes this thing tick.”
****
To Dumbstruck part 2