[Stargate: Fiction] "Compatibility of Souls: Ch. Seven: Bedside Manner" [8/12] [John/Rodney, G]
Title: Chapter Seven: Bedside Manner
Author: Ami Ven
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,550
Prompt: mcsheplets challenge #052 ‘destiny’
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing(s): John Sheppard/Rodney McKay
Summary: Rodney is a medical doctor and John is a soldier in Washington’s continental army.
Chapter Seven: Bedside Manner
Non-Warning! This chapter contains nothing particularly offensive.
outside Philadelphia, PA
1778 A.D.
Dr. M. Rodney McKay was not happy. Not that he typically was, but his current day had been particularly bad. No, not just that day, but every single day that had passed since he’d let that irredeemable optimist Carson talk him into coming to the ‘New World’.
It didn’t seem that new. It seemed to be trees, trees, trees and oh, more trees, with great amounts of mud and dirt, just for variety. Rodney had been perfectly content to view them from his seat in the (mostly) comfortable hay wagon, until the horse pulling it had gone suddenly and inexplicably lame.
And, perhaps, he could have taken care not to insult the wagon’s driver so completely, but he was a medical doctor, not a veterinarian, how was he supposed to know what was wrong?
Muttering about vindictive farmers and unsafe travelling conditions, Rodney grabbed his medical bag and set off on foot. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down in the woods, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder and gesturing wildly at the birds and squirrels he could see darting in and out of the trees.
Then, suddenly, a man emerged from the woods. “Don’t move!”
Rodney froze. The man was leveling a musket at him, scowling. He was wearing a patched and dirty coat and a tri-corner hat- the seemingly standard uniform of the American rebels. “Don’t move,” the man repeated. “I heard you talking. You’re English.”
“I am not!” Rodney protested, outraged enough to forget his fear. “I’m Scottish, you uncultured hooligan!”
The man’s scowl turned into a frown. “Then you’re not working for the Redcoats?”
“Of course not! I was just foolish enough to get convinced into coming to this miserable continent to see the ‘fascinating new medical techniques’ that are supposedly being developed here. I’m a doctor,” he added, when the man didn’t move.
“A medical doctor?” he asked, slowly, lowering his musket.
Rodney held up his bag. “You can look for yourself.”
“Actually, I was thinking about a demonstration,” said the man. He winced and put one hand to his side- and it was slick with blood when he held it out.
“Oh, my god, sit down, you idiot,” said Rodney, striding forward to catch the man’s arm. He always seemed to forget his fears when there was work to be done, and an injured soldier was unlikely to hurt him, anyway.
The man allowed himself to be led to the base of a large tree and he sat, but he curled into himself, warily.
“I’m a doctor,” Rodney repeated. “We don’t hurt people, as a rule. My name’s McKay. Dr. M. Rodney McKay.”
“Sheppard,” the man replied, tersely.
“Wonderful,” said Rodney, without much enthusiasm, and reached forward. “Take off your shirt and let me have a look at-”
“No!” cried Sheppard, catching Rodney’s wrist.
His fingers were slender, but strong and callused. Up close, Rodney could see that his eyes were hazel, framed by dark lashes, and the left eye was still healing from a blackening bruise. Sheppard’s dark hair was pulled back with a scrap of twine, but a few curls had escaped their tie.
Sheppard took a deep breath. “I mean, please, take a look, doctor, but I can’t undress. Not here.”
“All right,” Rodney said, slowly. He’d come across much less rational requests than not wanting to be half-naked in the woods with a stranger. “What happened?”
Sheppard smiled, which turned into a wince as Rodney eased his bloody shirt away from the wound. “There was a battle, doctor. They were shooting at us. I got shot.”
“Oh, how very helpful,” said Rodney. “Do you write reports to General What’s-His-Name like that?”
“General Washington,” said Sheppard. “And I don’t write reports. I just fight.”
“And apparently not very well,” said Rodney. “You appear to be lucky, Mr. Sheppard. The bullet stayed close to your skin, away from any internal organs. It looks like it may have hit your ribs, though, and it definitely needs to come out, along with whatever bits of your shirt it happened to take along with it. Unless you want to die a slow and painful death from unnecessary infection?”
Sheppard blinked at him. “You have the worst bedside manner ever,” he said, though he sounded more impressed than upset.
“Yes,” Rodney agreed, easily. “But I have the highest survival rate of any medical practitioner outside of- well, anywhere. Can you walk?”
“What?”
“Can you walk?” Rodney repeated, slowly. “I know you were holding me at gunpoint a moment ago, but you’re still losing blood, and I’d really prefer not to carry you if I don’t have to.”
Sheppard winced, but clambered to his feet, leaning heavily against the trunk of the tree. “I can walk.” He flinched at the hand Rodney settled under his elbow, but Rodney tightened his grip, and after a moment, Sheppard relaxed a little. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Rodney said, dryly. “Now, where are we going?”
“I have a small campsite, not far from here,” said Sheppard.
“I’ll need a sturdy table, or at the very least, a flat and bare stretch of ground. Clean cloth for bandages. Alcohol of some kind, and somewhere to build a strong fire.”
He half-expected Sheppard to question him, but the soldier simply nodded. “It’ll have to be the ground, but I’ve got the rest of it,” he said. “This way.”
Sheppard clearly intended to stride off confidently into the woods, but he stumbled on the first step and Rodney had to catch him before he fell.
“Constant, even pressure,’ said Rodney, moving Sheppard’s right hand to the cloth bandage over his wound. He pulled the man’s left arm carefully over his shoulder. Sheppard stiffened again, then seemed to force himself to relax. “Don’t die on me,” Rodney told him, sternly. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
Sheppard cracked a smile. “Hadn’t planned on it, doctor.”
“Excellent,” Rodney said, dryly. “Can we get going before you bleed to death?”
They had been walking for almost a quarter of an hour when Rodney began fervently wishing for his new patient not to die- both because of the increasing pallor of Sheppard’s complexion and because Rodney had lost his bearings almost immediately after they had left the main trail.
Then, suddenly, Sheppard stopped.
“What-?” Rodney began, but Sheppard had already swung his musket to bear, firing into the trees. There was an anguished cry, then a sudden ringing silence, broken when Sheppard let out a muffled whimper and sank to the ground.
Rodney knelt to check the bandage. “You’re bleeding more,” he said. “I need to operate immediately.”
“Check on the redcoat,” Sheppard said, voice tight with pain.
“Mr. Sheppard-”
“Go! Need to know if he’s gonna come after us.”
Rodney scowled, and pressed both of Sheppard’s hands to his wound. “Constant, even pressure,” he said. “And don’t move.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few yards away, Rodney found a man wearing the red jacket of a British soldier, sprawled in the undergrowth. He was dead, a single musket shot to the heart, and Rodney couldn’t help but be impressed- a flintlock musket was difficult to aim, so Sheppard was either very lucky or very skilled. Possibly both.
Rodney took the dead man’s pistol, ammunition and provisions before he could come to his senses, and returned to Sheppard. The soldier looked paler still, and didn’t stir when Rodney touched him.
“Mr. Sheppard?” he said, worried. He scrabbled to find a pulse, and let out a breath of relief when he found it. “Mr. Sheppard, wake up! He’s dead, we’re safe, or at least, I’m safe. You’re still bleeding to death, so wake up!”
Sheppard moaned faintly, and Rodney risked peeling back the bandages to peer at his wound. The bleeding had slowed again, but maybe that wasn’t Sheppard’s only injury? Rodney swore to himself and reached for the hem of Sheppard’s shirt.
The soldier thrashed, suddenly, batting at Rodney’s fingers. “No, don’t,” he said, glassy eyes trying to focus on Rodney’s face. “No, no…”
If he kept moving, he would hurt himself, so Rodney nodded. “Very well,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Can you walk? I still need to get that bullet out.”
Sheppard nodded, breathing hard. With Rodney’s help, he managed to get slowly back to his feet. They had gone a few yards when Shepard said, “Promise me that you won’t remove my clothes when you operate.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Promise me,” Sheppard repeated, firmly, even as he was swaying on his feet. “On your honor-”
“I will not,” Rodney snapped. “I am a doctor, Mr. Sheppard, not a voyeur, but you are my patient and I will do whatever is necessary to ensure your wellbeing.”
“No,” Sheppard repeated, weakly, like he hadn’t heard Rodney at all. There was a sudden flush to his too-pale face, and he swayed even more. “No, no…”
Sheppard kept walking, but Rodney was taking more and more of his weight, until the soldier finally collapsed, just as they reached a break in the trees. Beyond was a farmstead- or, it had been. The house had burned to the ground, but most of the barn still stood, so Rodney hoisted Sheppard into his arms and ducked inside.
There was a bedroll against the most intact wall, and he laid Sheppard on it, then gathered his supplies. He found a tattered petticoat on the clothesline that he could use for bandages, a bottle of something that smelled like homemade whiskey, and the stub of a fat candle, which he lit before kindling the fire Sheppard must have laid earlier.
The soldier didn’t stir as Rodney knelt to remove the blood-stained bandage, and he was grateful- operations always went more smoothly when the patient was not an active participant.
“This is going to hurt,” Rodney said, in case Sheppard could hear him. “Stay still, if you can, or it’ll be worse.”
Carefully, he peeled Sheppard’s equally blood-soaked shirt from the wound. He was lucky- it looked like the shirt hadn’t torn too much, which meant that fewer fibers would need to be removed from the wound. Rodney could feel the bullet under Sheppard’s skin, which meant it hadn’t done as much damage going in and wouldn’t do much more coming out.
Rodney dipped each of his instruments in alcohol, then heated them in the candle flame, before he used them on Sheppard. Most of the medical community had a hard time believing in invisible contaminants on tools that looked clean, but Rodney would take no chances. He removed the bullet with steady hands, then sewed up the wound with three perfect stitches.
Sheppard whimpered, but didn’t wake, and his breathing evened out as Rodney wrapped a clean bandage around his middle. Carefully, he eased Sheppard’s arms out of his jacket, then started on his shirt. Rodney’s fingers brushed fabric where he had expected skin, ad he froze.
“You idiot,” he said, to his unconscious patient, gentling Sheppard out of the shirt and revealing another set of bandaging wrapped around his upper torso. “You might have thought to mention a second injury to your doctor, but no, that would be probably be ‘showing weakness’ and a stoic soldier would never want to do something like- Oh.”
Rodney sat back on his heels, stunned. Sheppard didn’t have another injury under those bandages- he had breasts.
“Miss Sheppard,” he said, in surprise, then settled his- her- jacket over him- her- and went to look for some clean clothes.
Rodney had managed to scrounge enough food to make a passable supper by the time the sun began to set, and Sheppard stirred.
“Careful,” said Rodney, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t pull your stitches.”
Sheppard blinked up at him, clearly still in pain, then her eyes widened as she realized she wasn’t wearing the same clothes as when she’d passed out.
“You!” she began, voice hoarse, and tried to sit up, but Rodney held her down.
“Yes, me,” he said, scowling at her. “I thought you had another injury! And I did not spend three hours removing a bullet and stitching you back together just to have you die from something I could have easily treated.”
“You… you sound offended,” said Sheppard, stunned.
“Yes, well, stupidity is always offensive,” said Rodney. “No doubt you thought that I would march off to wherever it is that General What’s-His-Name has his headquarters and tell him that one of his soldiers- one of several thousand, no doubt- has committed the egregious act of being female and should, I don’t know, be put to the firing squad?”
Sheppard turned faintly pink, which was much more attractive now that she wasn’t about to keel over. “Something like that,” she muttered.
“As if I care that you’re a woman,” Rodney continued. Satisfied that she would stay lying down, he went to check on the pot of stew he’d set over the fire. “I should be much more concerned that you saved my life, earlier. And grateful. I ought to have been grateful. So, um, thank you, Miss Sheppard.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, softly. “But you saved my life, too. So we’re even.”
“Hmm,” said Rodney. He dished the stew into two bowls and held one out. “Sit up, carefully, and try to eat. You need energy to heal.”
Sheppard propped herself against the wall. “My father is a loyalist,” she said, after a long moment.
“What?” said Rodney.
“A loyalist,” Sheppard repeated. “We’re- he’s fairly wealthy, and he does a lot of business in England. He wants- I heard him planning, not long after Mother died, to marry me off to some titled English lord, just to increase his social standing.”
She said it like it was a curse, and maybe it was. “So you joined the army?” Rodney asked. “That seems a bit extreme.”
“You don’t know my father,” Sheppard said, darkly.
Rodney closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He really shouldn’t… he’d known this girl, mostly as a boy, for less than a day. And yet…
“Will you go back to the army?” he asked.
Sheppard shook her head. “I can’t. I’m… in the last engagement, two of my fellows were cut off, behind the British lines. I went back for them, against orders… well, Colonel Sumner said that if I left, I shouldn’t bother coming back.”
“That sounds brave,” said Rodney, and he meant it.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Sheppard. “They were dead, and I was shot. And the army moved on without me.”
“Then you have nowhere to go.”
She snorted a humorless laugh. “Thanks for that, Mr. Tactless.”
“That’s Dr. Tactless,” said Rodney. “But you’re reasonably intelligent, familiar with this godforsaken country, not prone to swooning at the sight of blood… Miss Sheppard, I was wondering if you would consider accompanying me?”
“Accompanying you?” she repeated, her smile returning. “Without a chaperone?”
Rodney snorted. “Miss Sheppard, if the last twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it is that you are both highly capable of looking after yourself should any trouble arise, and entirely able to find that trouble without any help.”
Any other woman, Rodney thought, might have been insulted at that, but Sheppard grinned. “From soldier to doctor’s assistant?” she said. “Then perhaps you should call me Johanna.”
Who’s Who
Rodney McKay as a Scottish medical doctor
John Sheppard as Johanna Sheppard, a disguised revolutionary soldier
Carson Beckett, mentioned as a friend of Rodney’s
Marshall Sumner, mentioned as Johanna’s previous commanding officer
Chapter Eight
Current Mood:
grumpy
Author: Ami Ven
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,550
Prompt: mcsheplets challenge #052 ‘destiny’
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing(s): John Sheppard/Rodney McKay
Summary: Rodney is a medical doctor and John is a soldier in Washington’s continental army.
Chapter Seven: Bedside Manner
Non-Warning! This chapter contains nothing particularly offensive.
outside Philadelphia, PA
1778 A.D.
Dr. M. Rodney McKay was not happy. Not that he typically was, but his current day had been particularly bad. No, not just that day, but every single day that had passed since he’d let that irredeemable optimist Carson talk him into coming to the ‘New World’.
It didn’t seem that new. It seemed to be trees, trees, trees and oh, more trees, with great amounts of mud and dirt, just for variety. Rodney had been perfectly content to view them from his seat in the (mostly) comfortable hay wagon, until the horse pulling it had gone suddenly and inexplicably lame.
And, perhaps, he could have taken care not to insult the wagon’s driver so completely, but he was a medical doctor, not a veterinarian, how was he supposed to know what was wrong?
Muttering about vindictive farmers and unsafe travelling conditions, Rodney grabbed his medical bag and set off on foot. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down in the woods, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder and gesturing wildly at the birds and squirrels he could see darting in and out of the trees.
Then, suddenly, a man emerged from the woods. “Don’t move!”
Rodney froze. The man was leveling a musket at him, scowling. He was wearing a patched and dirty coat and a tri-corner hat- the seemingly standard uniform of the American rebels. “Don’t move,” the man repeated. “I heard you talking. You’re English.”
“I am not!” Rodney protested, outraged enough to forget his fear. “I’m Scottish, you uncultured hooligan!”
The man’s scowl turned into a frown. “Then you’re not working for the Redcoats?”
“Of course not! I was just foolish enough to get convinced into coming to this miserable continent to see the ‘fascinating new medical techniques’ that are supposedly being developed here. I’m a doctor,” he added, when the man didn’t move.
“A medical doctor?” he asked, slowly, lowering his musket.
Rodney held up his bag. “You can look for yourself.”
“Actually, I was thinking about a demonstration,” said the man. He winced and put one hand to his side- and it was slick with blood when he held it out.
“Oh, my god, sit down, you idiot,” said Rodney, striding forward to catch the man’s arm. He always seemed to forget his fears when there was work to be done, and an injured soldier was unlikely to hurt him, anyway.
The man allowed himself to be led to the base of a large tree and he sat, but he curled into himself, warily.
“I’m a doctor,” Rodney repeated. “We don’t hurt people, as a rule. My name’s McKay. Dr. M. Rodney McKay.”
“Sheppard,” the man replied, tersely.
“Wonderful,” said Rodney, without much enthusiasm, and reached forward. “Take off your shirt and let me have a look at-”
“No!” cried Sheppard, catching Rodney’s wrist.
His fingers were slender, but strong and callused. Up close, Rodney could see that his eyes were hazel, framed by dark lashes, and the left eye was still healing from a blackening bruise. Sheppard’s dark hair was pulled back with a scrap of twine, but a few curls had escaped their tie.
Sheppard took a deep breath. “I mean, please, take a look, doctor, but I can’t undress. Not here.”
“All right,” Rodney said, slowly. He’d come across much less rational requests than not wanting to be half-naked in the woods with a stranger. “What happened?”
Sheppard smiled, which turned into a wince as Rodney eased his bloody shirt away from the wound. “There was a battle, doctor. They were shooting at us. I got shot.”
“Oh, how very helpful,” said Rodney. “Do you write reports to General What’s-His-Name like that?”
“General Washington,” said Sheppard. “And I don’t write reports. I just fight.”
“And apparently not very well,” said Rodney. “You appear to be lucky, Mr. Sheppard. The bullet stayed close to your skin, away from any internal organs. It looks like it may have hit your ribs, though, and it definitely needs to come out, along with whatever bits of your shirt it happened to take along with it. Unless you want to die a slow and painful death from unnecessary infection?”
Sheppard blinked at him. “You have the worst bedside manner ever,” he said, though he sounded more impressed than upset.
“Yes,” Rodney agreed, easily. “But I have the highest survival rate of any medical practitioner outside of- well, anywhere. Can you walk?”
“What?”
“Can you walk?” Rodney repeated, slowly. “I know you were holding me at gunpoint a moment ago, but you’re still losing blood, and I’d really prefer not to carry you if I don’t have to.”
Sheppard winced, but clambered to his feet, leaning heavily against the trunk of the tree. “I can walk.” He flinched at the hand Rodney settled under his elbow, but Rodney tightened his grip, and after a moment, Sheppard relaxed a little. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Rodney said, dryly. “Now, where are we going?”
“I have a small campsite, not far from here,” said Sheppard.
“I’ll need a sturdy table, or at the very least, a flat and bare stretch of ground. Clean cloth for bandages. Alcohol of some kind, and somewhere to build a strong fire.”
He half-expected Sheppard to question him, but the soldier simply nodded. “It’ll have to be the ground, but I’ve got the rest of it,” he said. “This way.”
Sheppard clearly intended to stride off confidently into the woods, but he stumbled on the first step and Rodney had to catch him before he fell.
“Constant, even pressure,’ said Rodney, moving Sheppard’s right hand to the cloth bandage over his wound. He pulled the man’s left arm carefully over his shoulder. Sheppard stiffened again, then seemed to force himself to relax. “Don’t die on me,” Rodney told him, sternly. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
Sheppard cracked a smile. “Hadn’t planned on it, doctor.”
“Excellent,” Rodney said, dryly. “Can we get going before you bleed to death?”
They had been walking for almost a quarter of an hour when Rodney began fervently wishing for his new patient not to die- both because of the increasing pallor of Sheppard’s complexion and because Rodney had lost his bearings almost immediately after they had left the main trail.
Then, suddenly, Sheppard stopped.
“What-?” Rodney began, but Sheppard had already swung his musket to bear, firing into the trees. There was an anguished cry, then a sudden ringing silence, broken when Sheppard let out a muffled whimper and sank to the ground.
Rodney knelt to check the bandage. “You’re bleeding more,” he said. “I need to operate immediately.”
“Check on the redcoat,” Sheppard said, voice tight with pain.
“Mr. Sheppard-”
“Go! Need to know if he’s gonna come after us.”
Rodney scowled, and pressed both of Sheppard’s hands to his wound. “Constant, even pressure,” he said. “And don’t move.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few yards away, Rodney found a man wearing the red jacket of a British soldier, sprawled in the undergrowth. He was dead, a single musket shot to the heart, and Rodney couldn’t help but be impressed- a flintlock musket was difficult to aim, so Sheppard was either very lucky or very skilled. Possibly both.
Rodney took the dead man’s pistol, ammunition and provisions before he could come to his senses, and returned to Sheppard. The soldier looked paler still, and didn’t stir when Rodney touched him.
“Mr. Sheppard?” he said, worried. He scrabbled to find a pulse, and let out a breath of relief when he found it. “Mr. Sheppard, wake up! He’s dead, we’re safe, or at least, I’m safe. You’re still bleeding to death, so wake up!”
Sheppard moaned faintly, and Rodney risked peeling back the bandages to peer at his wound. The bleeding had slowed again, but maybe that wasn’t Sheppard’s only injury? Rodney swore to himself and reached for the hem of Sheppard’s shirt.
The soldier thrashed, suddenly, batting at Rodney’s fingers. “No, don’t,” he said, glassy eyes trying to focus on Rodney’s face. “No, no…”
If he kept moving, he would hurt himself, so Rodney nodded. “Very well,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Can you walk? I still need to get that bullet out.”
Sheppard nodded, breathing hard. With Rodney’s help, he managed to get slowly back to his feet. They had gone a few yards when Shepard said, “Promise me that you won’t remove my clothes when you operate.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Promise me,” Sheppard repeated, firmly, even as he was swaying on his feet. “On your honor-”
“I will not,” Rodney snapped. “I am a doctor, Mr. Sheppard, not a voyeur, but you are my patient and I will do whatever is necessary to ensure your wellbeing.”
“No,” Sheppard repeated, weakly, like he hadn’t heard Rodney at all. There was a sudden flush to his too-pale face, and he swayed even more. “No, no…”
Sheppard kept walking, but Rodney was taking more and more of his weight, until the soldier finally collapsed, just as they reached a break in the trees. Beyond was a farmstead- or, it had been. The house had burned to the ground, but most of the barn still stood, so Rodney hoisted Sheppard into his arms and ducked inside.
There was a bedroll against the most intact wall, and he laid Sheppard on it, then gathered his supplies. He found a tattered petticoat on the clothesline that he could use for bandages, a bottle of something that smelled like homemade whiskey, and the stub of a fat candle, which he lit before kindling the fire Sheppard must have laid earlier.
The soldier didn’t stir as Rodney knelt to remove the blood-stained bandage, and he was grateful- operations always went more smoothly when the patient was not an active participant.
“This is going to hurt,” Rodney said, in case Sheppard could hear him. “Stay still, if you can, or it’ll be worse.”
Carefully, he peeled Sheppard’s equally blood-soaked shirt from the wound. He was lucky- it looked like the shirt hadn’t torn too much, which meant that fewer fibers would need to be removed from the wound. Rodney could feel the bullet under Sheppard’s skin, which meant it hadn’t done as much damage going in and wouldn’t do much more coming out.
Rodney dipped each of his instruments in alcohol, then heated them in the candle flame, before he used them on Sheppard. Most of the medical community had a hard time believing in invisible contaminants on tools that looked clean, but Rodney would take no chances. He removed the bullet with steady hands, then sewed up the wound with three perfect stitches.
Sheppard whimpered, but didn’t wake, and his breathing evened out as Rodney wrapped a clean bandage around his middle. Carefully, he eased Sheppard’s arms out of his jacket, then started on his shirt. Rodney’s fingers brushed fabric where he had expected skin, ad he froze.
“You idiot,” he said, to his unconscious patient, gentling Sheppard out of the shirt and revealing another set of bandaging wrapped around his upper torso. “You might have thought to mention a second injury to your doctor, but no, that would be probably be ‘showing weakness’ and a stoic soldier would never want to do something like- Oh.”
Rodney sat back on his heels, stunned. Sheppard didn’t have another injury under those bandages- he had breasts.
“Miss Sheppard,” he said, in surprise, then settled his- her- jacket over him- her- and went to look for some clean clothes.
Rodney had managed to scrounge enough food to make a passable supper by the time the sun began to set, and Sheppard stirred.
“Careful,” said Rodney, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t pull your stitches.”
Sheppard blinked up at him, clearly still in pain, then her eyes widened as she realized she wasn’t wearing the same clothes as when she’d passed out.
“You!” she began, voice hoarse, and tried to sit up, but Rodney held her down.
“Yes, me,” he said, scowling at her. “I thought you had another injury! And I did not spend three hours removing a bullet and stitching you back together just to have you die from something I could have easily treated.”
“You… you sound offended,” said Sheppard, stunned.
“Yes, well, stupidity is always offensive,” said Rodney. “No doubt you thought that I would march off to wherever it is that General What’s-His-Name has his headquarters and tell him that one of his soldiers- one of several thousand, no doubt- has committed the egregious act of being female and should, I don’t know, be put to the firing squad?”
Sheppard turned faintly pink, which was much more attractive now that she wasn’t about to keel over. “Something like that,” she muttered.
“As if I care that you’re a woman,” Rodney continued. Satisfied that she would stay lying down, he went to check on the pot of stew he’d set over the fire. “I should be much more concerned that you saved my life, earlier. And grateful. I ought to have been grateful. So, um, thank you, Miss Sheppard.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, softly. “But you saved my life, too. So we’re even.”
“Hmm,” said Rodney. He dished the stew into two bowls and held one out. “Sit up, carefully, and try to eat. You need energy to heal.”
Sheppard propped herself against the wall. “My father is a loyalist,” she said, after a long moment.
“What?” said Rodney.
“A loyalist,” Sheppard repeated. “We’re- he’s fairly wealthy, and he does a lot of business in England. He wants- I heard him planning, not long after Mother died, to marry me off to some titled English lord, just to increase his social standing.”
She said it like it was a curse, and maybe it was. “So you joined the army?” Rodney asked. “That seems a bit extreme.”
“You don’t know my father,” Sheppard said, darkly.
Rodney closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He really shouldn’t… he’d known this girl, mostly as a boy, for less than a day. And yet…
“Will you go back to the army?” he asked.
Sheppard shook her head. “I can’t. I’m… in the last engagement, two of my fellows were cut off, behind the British lines. I went back for them, against orders… well, Colonel Sumner said that if I left, I shouldn’t bother coming back.”
“That sounds brave,” said Rodney, and he meant it.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Sheppard. “They were dead, and I was shot. And the army moved on without me.”
“Then you have nowhere to go.”
She snorted a humorless laugh. “Thanks for that, Mr. Tactless.”
“That’s Dr. Tactless,” said Rodney. “But you’re reasonably intelligent, familiar with this godforsaken country, not prone to swooning at the sight of blood… Miss Sheppard, I was wondering if you would consider accompanying me?”
“Accompanying you?” she repeated, her smile returning. “Without a chaperone?”
Rodney snorted. “Miss Sheppard, if the last twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it is that you are both highly capable of looking after yourself should any trouble arise, and entirely able to find that trouble without any help.”
Any other woman, Rodney thought, might have been insulted at that, but Sheppard grinned. “From soldier to doctor’s assistant?” she said. “Then perhaps you should call me Johanna.”
Who’s Who
Rodney McKay as a Scottish medical doctor
John Sheppard as Johanna Sheppard, a disguised revolutionary soldier
Carson Beckett, mentioned as a friend of Rodney’s
Marshall Sumner, mentioned as Johanna’s previous commanding officer
Chapter Eight
Current Mood:
grumpy