Those Pesky Leaks
A few people have asked about the fate of the contaminated sports arena that Rodney was trying was trying to build in Tampa. A few other people asked me about the broken wrist incident in Imperfections 7. This is my report about what I've found out about it so far.
Imperfections: John and Rodney IV
(except it happens between 2 and 3)
it's not finished yet.
Sept 1992
The new workstudy was completely awed by the title "Graduate Director," although in the month Jack had had it, it had pretty much only meant "more paper work." She was young--freshman young. And away from home for the first time. And also, probably, a little freaked out by Jack's wheelchair.
When he got back from lunch, she came out from around the desk and met him at the elevator, scraps of Antho Department "while you were out" post-its in her hands. "Oh, Dr. Kelso!" She was, he saw, very nearly quivering. "You've been getting calls from AAD. They've been looking for you for half an hour, and they keep calling, and they say it's an emergency but their messages don't make any sense and, oh, Dr. Kelso, I didn't know what to tell them, there's nobody else here, Andrea is at lunch--"
"The School of Art, Architecture and Design," Jack said, his stomach sinking. He managed to snag one of the notes she was waving around. The only word his eyes registered was the one he was looking for: McKay. "If they call again, tell them I'm coming." He took the same elevator back down.
Art, Architecture, and Design was on the other side of the quad and uphill. Jack made the best speed he could, and arrived at the main doors out of breath and slightly sweaty. He was met by a student--by age a graduate student, and by the slightly geeky and deeply overstressed air, one of Rodney's--who knew him on sight and led him not to Rodney's office upstairs, but to a conference room on the first floor.
It was a nice conference room, all steel and glass, airy and large, fitting the extravagant new building AAD had built for itself. Jack recognized the secretary from the Engineering Department but not the older man in the suit. Both of them were talking quietly, heads together, as they stared at Rodney--
--Who was curled up on the conference room's sparse couch. He was facing away from the door, talking quietly into a phone. Conscious, then. What the hell had happened? "Excuse me," Jack said.
Apparently the older man recognized him, although it wasn't mutual. "Dr. Kelso, I'm Dean Brown. Dr. McKay said you were filling in while John was away?"
"That's right. What happened?"
The man scowled, hesitating.
"I can show you the paper work." He reached for his wallet. "I have a card--"
"He was delivering a lecture on materials."
Jack nodded. He knew Rodney's schedule; not regular classes at the moment, but a series of special seminars. He couldn't picture any notable hazards. Rodney didn't eat or drink while he taught. It was a large lecture hall, so he shouldn't be close enough to students to be thrown off by personal hygiene products. And Rodney generally didn't have any problems in class anyway. "And--?"
"Apparently, a student backpack was partially blocking the walkway. Dr. McKay tripped and had a bad fall--"
And that was just not what Jack had expected. A fall? What the hell was Jack supposed to do with that? "Would you leave us alone?" he asked.
They shut the door as they went, and Jack came around the big conference table to the huddled, muttering form on the sofa. "Rodney?"
"Are those morons gone?"
"Yes." And this was good. Rodney was coherent.
"John wants to talk to you." He held out the phone.
"Kelso," Jack said, trying to sound calm.
"He says his arm hurts." John said without preamble. "How does it look?"
"Let me see," Jack urged, prodding Rodney until he turned and held out his right hand.
"Don't touch it," Rodney hissed. His color wasn't good, and his other hand was shaking.
"Well...it's swollen," Jack said into the phone. "It might just be a bad sprain." He tried to sound relaxed, but the truth was that with the problems Rodney had been having with even minor pain, even a bad sprain was dangerous.
"I'll get there as soon as I can get a flight. In the mean time..."
"Hospital," Jack said. Hospitals were at least as dangerous as pain, but Jack didn't have the resources to treat this alone.
"Jack." and John's voice broke on the word.
Jack could barely breathe for a moment himself, he'd gotten so caught in sympathetic fear. But no, no. Just no. Guides didn't panic. "We'll be fine," he said calmly. "We'll be waiting for you." Jack rang off and dialed 911, which took three steps because he didn't want to hunt up a real phone. He thought absently, as he omitted mentioning the injury and carefully emphasized the words "sentinel" and "shock," that he needed to address this in class, and probably several times. Communication along a chain of operators and dispatchers and EMS and partners got garbled, and besides, emergency officials tended to assume that everyone else was an idiot. You had to hold on to control from the start and not let the professionals get the idea that the problem was something simple that they didn't need to worry about.
Jack shut Rodney's phone (which the operator disapproved of, but Jack only said patiently, "No, I have to do my job now") and held out his hand. He waited for Rodney to nod before placing the hand on his chest, just above where he'd braced the injured arm. He winced theatrically. "Tripped, huh?"
Rodney exhaled sharply. "Fuck you. And, yes."
Moving slowly, Jack retrieved a tissue from his pocket and cleaned Rodney's face. "Can you move down so we can get your feet up on the arm of the sofa?"
"No. I can't move."
Jack looked around, but the sleek room didn't have anything he could use to elevate Rodney's feet.
"John shouldn't have gone," Rodney whispered.
"Yeah, court orders are a bitch that way," Jack said. "It cost you several thousand dollars in lawyers not to have to go, too."
"Ten," Rodney said. "Ten thousand dollars." A new set of tears escaped.
No, no, that wasn't good. "What was it you decided to do when he gets back?"
"There's a huge new water park in Oregon. At this time of year the outdoor part is only open on weekends." Rodney gulped. "My new passion."
"Yeah. You mentioned after coming back from Texas last month. Historic inspection, right?" Rodney was shivering a little. Jack took off his sports coat and laid it over Rodney's torso.
"Yeah. The building wasn't salvageable. Complete mess. But they had this water park. It's like rollercoasters, but no engine." Rodney actually smiled a little. "No vibration, no noise, no cramped little seat...just gravity and your body."
"That sounds beautiful."
"I think it might kind of be a recreational drug."
"Rodney...can you do a body check for me? I'd really like to know your blood pressure right now?"
"No," Rodney said, in the tone of voice that said, 'idiot.' "That would involve paying attention to my body, and my body hurts."
"Okay. I won't push. Tell me...the specs on the new water park."
It was gibberish, of course. But just because engineering was another language, not because Rodney was at diminished consciousness, so Jack nodded and made occasional, encouraging noises.
When the paramedics arrived, Jack put on the stern look he used on undergraduates looking for extra credit and demanded to know if either of them had treated a sentinel before. They hadn't, but that was no worse than Jack had expected. "Then you are going to have to follow instructions very carefully. You, start a glucose IV and then get out whatever we'll need to brace that arm. You, start telling me what pain killers you're carrying--" and then Jack realized his mistake. He didn't have Rodney's records. He had a copy in his car and in his office and on his desk at home, but he hadn't taken anything with him to lunch but a tiny wirebound notebook. He hadn't even remembered that he'd need Rodney's records until this moment. He'd never worked with a partner who had so many lists that they couldn't be memorized.
"They put my briefcase on the table," Rodney said, his voice grinding a scathing criticism of Jack's mistake.
Feeling like shit, Jack retrieved the briefcase. In it was a full-sized three-ring notebook with section dividers. Jack's first and second choices for pain relief, the paramedics weren't carrying. Jack went with his third choice.
"That dose is too high," the earnest young man protested. "It'll depress his breathing."
Jack sighed. "No, it won't. And it probably won't even last half an hour. His metabolism has met this one before. The authority is mine. The legal liability is mine. Give the goddamn shot."
"Yeah. Go, Jack," Rodney panted, pressing himself into the upholstery as the second paramedic tried to coax him into submitting to having his blood pressure taken.
"No arguing from you, either," Jack said, only partly teasing. "As soon as you start to feel that shot, we need to stabilize that arm and move you."
"I've been thinking about that," Rodney said. He'd visibly gone down hill in the very short time Jack had been with him. The shaking was worse now, and his skin had gone from pale to pasty grey. His breathing was shallow and much faster than Jack liked. "I think I'll just wait here for John. That's...a better idea."
Jack shook his head.
"No. Really. I've...been thinking and...it's probably just a pulled muscle or something. I'll feel better in a few minutes. Maybe some ice...all this really isn't necessary."
Jack leaned down to whisper near his ear. "Yes it is," he said. "We need to take care of this pain and get you under observation. And if you endanger yourself by trying to pull stupid shit while he's gone, John is going to be completely pissed when he does get here."
Jack padded the splint with gauze, and as gently as he could, lifted it into place around Rodney's arm. Even with the drug in his system, it hurt. Rodney cursed. Loudly and continuously. Jack had been expecting that, though, and his hands never once hesitated or jerked. When it was done--finally--Rodney was in tears again and Jack...was thinking about crying himself. He held on to Rodney's good hand and whispered, "Breathe, just breathe. This is good, this is good."
Compared to splinting, packing the arm in ice and lifting Rodney onto the stretcher was a piece of cake. Getting Jack into the back of the ambulance was harder. There was no room for the chair, and no good place for an extra person to sit. Jack wound up perched on a narrow almost-bench clinging to the handle of something--he wasn't sure what--so he wouldn't slide off onto the floor. "Rodney," he said firmly, "Look right here. My eyes. This is the easy part, right? We can do this."
Rodney's eyes weren't focusing. That was the drug. But his face was turned in the right direction, so Jack counted it as a win.
"Do we run the siren?" one of the paramedics asked.
"No," God, no. Speed wasn't nearly as important as comfort.
"I want to call John," Rodney said, trying to keep his voice even.
"He'll have left the hotel by now. Rodney. Keep your eyes on me, all right? John is coming. You'll be all right."
"He's in Florida. That damn coliseum. Always that damn coliseum...."
"I know," Jack said helplessly.
The trip was no worse than Jack would have expected. The Emergency Room was in Rodney's usual hospital, and Rodney wasn't the only sentinel they treated. That was an advantage of sorts. Or at least not another strike against them.
They didn't have to wait for a doctor, although the brief intake was almost surreal. When Jack was being seen himself, medical personal often asked the same question repeatedly or didn't take the answers he gave at face value. Speaking to a doctor as a guide, though, was a completely different experience, one Jack had forgotten during the long years since he last advocated for a sentinel. The doctor listened very attentively, accepted Jack's evaluation of the situation without complaint, and followed Jack's recommendations.
The first thing, of course, was to x-ray the arm, now, before the pain meds wore off. There was no waiting for this either; a tech brought in a portable x-ray machine. The second thing--while waiting for the pictures to process--was to start another IV and see if they could ward off distributive shock. Then Jack took out the ring binder, and he and the doctor tried to work out a plan which--they hoped--would keep Rodney in the narrow space where the pain was bearable but he wasn't in danger of overdose.
Not fast enough. The drug wore off more quickly than Jack had expected and almost all at once. Jack, careful of the IV line, took Rodney's cold hand between both of his and tried to talk to him. Rodney kept asking what time it was. Of course, what he really wanted to know was how much longer before John came.
Jack tried to keep things low-key. His voice certain. His heart rate down. Eye contact. It had been a long time since Jack had practiced as a guide--and never, dear god, with anyone as fragile as Rodney McKay--but he remembered the rhythms.
Rodney clung.
The x-ray came back positive for a fracture in Rodney's wrist. The doctor wanted to set the arm--the more immobile, the less pain there would be--instead of just putting it in a brace, but Rodney would have to be under for that, and anyway, he'd never had a broken bone before. They'd have to test to see if his body would react to plaster or fiberglass.
"What time is it?"
"Not yet, Rodney."
The second painkiller was administered with the IV, so it hit more slowly. After a few minutes, Rodney slumped against the pillows and stilled. It was as much exhaustion as relief. Jack asked for a damp towel and wiped down his face. Rodney managed a small, ugly smile. "Heh. 'Jack I have this tiny favor. I'm sure you won't mind.'" It was a weak parody of John.
Jack tried to smile back. "Oh, yeah. I'm going to get him for this."
An orderly poked his head in to the little curtained alcove they'd been given. "Dr. Kelso? There's a phone call for you."
Jack did smile then. "That will be John with his flight information. I'll be right back. You," he pointed at the orderly. "You watch him. I will be right back."
"How is he? "
"He's...stable." Not okay. Not nearly okay. "Where are you?"
A broken laugh, or maybe tears. "In jail. One of the lawyers found out I was leaving. I, um, something about contempt of court...."
"No--" Jack gasped.
"I need you to call Rodney's doctor. Not the one in Cascade, the one in Vermont. Beckett. Sam Beckett. He has friends in sentinel law. He'll help. I'll, I'll get there as quickly as I can. I'm sorry--"
Somehow, Jack said the right, reassuring things. Somehow, he found the number in Rodney's binder and made the call to the doctor. Somehow, he made himself go back to Rodney.
"How soon?" Rodney asked.
"Rodney, I'm sorry--"
"What? No--"
"John can't come. He's a witness in an ongoing trial, and the judge won't release him."
"You're lying," Rodney said loudly, anger rallying is strength. "John--"
"Will be here as soon as he can. But I don't know when that will be. You need to calm down. We still need to set the arm and get you admitted--"
"This is what you've been waiting for isn't it? A chance to get me out of the way?"
What? Jack's heart sank. Rodney was incoherent. They'd have to get him on oxygen and probably something to get his blood pressure up. Jack reached for the curtain, meaning to call for a doctor.
"Did you think you were hiding it? I know you want him for yourself. I can smell it on you. Well, this is your chance, isn't it? You won't even have to try very hard."
Oh. Not incoherence. Paranoia. Jack had never seen it this bad, but he had seen it before. He reached out--
Rodney's eyes widened. "Stay away from me."
"Brilliant. You've figured me out. If you die John will coming running to me. And, hey, compared to you, I'm actually a prize."
Predictably contentious, Rodney snapped, "He'd never forgive you!"
Jack nodded. "Right. He would never forgive me, and he would never get over it. Never. The sun rises and sets on you. So you had damn well better do what ever it takes not to die."
Rodney squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, god, Jack. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. You've been so good to us--"
"Aw, hell." Jack heaved himself up onto the exam table and balanced him weight against Rodney's hip. "Easy. It's all right." He rubbed his palm gently up and down Rodney's chest. "Don't worry about it. It's all right."
"I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. John would never forgive you if you left me."
"I won't leave you."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"
"I know. I won't leave you. But right now, you need to try to relax."
"I know," Rodney said meekly.
"All right. Now, the nurse is preparing a sample of the different materials, so we can tell what kind of cast you can tolerate. Plaster would be best, but--"
"Plaster is fine," Rodney whispered, closing his eyes. "When I was in school we didn't have CAD. We made all our models out of balsa wood or plaster. Lots of models. Drew all our plans by hand, too...."
"Oh," Jack said, feeling a little stupid. "Right."
Imperfections: John and Rodney IV
(except it happens between 2 and 3)
it's not finished yet.
Sept 1992
The new workstudy was completely awed by the title "Graduate Director," although in the month Jack had had it, it had pretty much only meant "more paper work." She was young--freshman young. And away from home for the first time. And also, probably, a little freaked out by Jack's wheelchair.
When he got back from lunch, she came out from around the desk and met him at the elevator, scraps of Antho Department "while you were out" post-its in her hands. "Oh, Dr. Kelso!" She was, he saw, very nearly quivering. "You've been getting calls from AAD. They've been looking for you for half an hour, and they keep calling, and they say it's an emergency but their messages don't make any sense and, oh, Dr. Kelso, I didn't know what to tell them, there's nobody else here, Andrea is at lunch--"
"The School of Art, Architecture and Design," Jack said, his stomach sinking. He managed to snag one of the notes she was waving around. The only word his eyes registered was the one he was looking for: McKay. "If they call again, tell them I'm coming." He took the same elevator back down.
Art, Architecture, and Design was on the other side of the quad and uphill. Jack made the best speed he could, and arrived at the main doors out of breath and slightly sweaty. He was met by a student--by age a graduate student, and by the slightly geeky and deeply overstressed air, one of Rodney's--who knew him on sight and led him not to Rodney's office upstairs, but to a conference room on the first floor.
It was a nice conference room, all steel and glass, airy and large, fitting the extravagant new building AAD had built for itself. Jack recognized the secretary from the Engineering Department but not the older man in the suit. Both of them were talking quietly, heads together, as they stared at Rodney--
--Who was curled up on the conference room's sparse couch. He was facing away from the door, talking quietly into a phone. Conscious, then. What the hell had happened? "Excuse me," Jack said.
Apparently the older man recognized him, although it wasn't mutual. "Dr. Kelso, I'm Dean Brown. Dr. McKay said you were filling in while John was away?"
"That's right. What happened?"
The man scowled, hesitating.
"I can show you the paper work." He reached for his wallet. "I have a card--"
"He was delivering a lecture on materials."
Jack nodded. He knew Rodney's schedule; not regular classes at the moment, but a series of special seminars. He couldn't picture any notable hazards. Rodney didn't eat or drink while he taught. It was a large lecture hall, so he shouldn't be close enough to students to be thrown off by personal hygiene products. And Rodney generally didn't have any problems in class anyway. "And--?"
"Apparently, a student backpack was partially blocking the walkway. Dr. McKay tripped and had a bad fall--"
And that was just not what Jack had expected. A fall? What the hell was Jack supposed to do with that? "Would you leave us alone?" he asked.
They shut the door as they went, and Jack came around the big conference table to the huddled, muttering form on the sofa. "Rodney?"
"Are those morons gone?"
"Yes." And this was good. Rodney was coherent.
"John wants to talk to you." He held out the phone.
"Kelso," Jack said, trying to sound calm.
"He says his arm hurts." John said without preamble. "How does it look?"
"Let me see," Jack urged, prodding Rodney until he turned and held out his right hand.
"Don't touch it," Rodney hissed. His color wasn't good, and his other hand was shaking.
"Well...it's swollen," Jack said into the phone. "It might just be a bad sprain." He tried to sound relaxed, but the truth was that with the problems Rodney had been having with even minor pain, even a bad sprain was dangerous.
"I'll get there as soon as I can get a flight. In the mean time..."
"Hospital," Jack said. Hospitals were at least as dangerous as pain, but Jack didn't have the resources to treat this alone.
"Jack." and John's voice broke on the word.
Jack could barely breathe for a moment himself, he'd gotten so caught in sympathetic fear. But no, no. Just no. Guides didn't panic. "We'll be fine," he said calmly. "We'll be waiting for you." Jack rang off and dialed 911, which took three steps because he didn't want to hunt up a real phone. He thought absently, as he omitted mentioning the injury and carefully emphasized the words "sentinel" and "shock," that he needed to address this in class, and probably several times. Communication along a chain of operators and dispatchers and EMS and partners got garbled, and besides, emergency officials tended to assume that everyone else was an idiot. You had to hold on to control from the start and not let the professionals get the idea that the problem was something simple that they didn't need to worry about.
Jack shut Rodney's phone (which the operator disapproved of, but Jack only said patiently, "No, I have to do my job now") and held out his hand. He waited for Rodney to nod before placing the hand on his chest, just above where he'd braced the injured arm. He winced theatrically. "Tripped, huh?"
Rodney exhaled sharply. "Fuck you. And, yes."
Moving slowly, Jack retrieved a tissue from his pocket and cleaned Rodney's face. "Can you move down so we can get your feet up on the arm of the sofa?"
"No. I can't move."
Jack looked around, but the sleek room didn't have anything he could use to elevate Rodney's feet.
"John shouldn't have gone," Rodney whispered.
"Yeah, court orders are a bitch that way," Jack said. "It cost you several thousand dollars in lawyers not to have to go, too."
"Ten," Rodney said. "Ten thousand dollars." A new set of tears escaped.
No, no, that wasn't good. "What was it you decided to do when he gets back?"
"There's a huge new water park in Oregon. At this time of year the outdoor part is only open on weekends." Rodney gulped. "My new passion."
"Yeah. You mentioned after coming back from Texas last month. Historic inspection, right?" Rodney was shivering a little. Jack took off his sports coat and laid it over Rodney's torso.
"Yeah. The building wasn't salvageable. Complete mess. But they had this water park. It's like rollercoasters, but no engine." Rodney actually smiled a little. "No vibration, no noise, no cramped little seat...just gravity and your body."
"That sounds beautiful."
"I think it might kind of be a recreational drug."
"Rodney...can you do a body check for me? I'd really like to know your blood pressure right now?"
"No," Rodney said, in the tone of voice that said, 'idiot.' "That would involve paying attention to my body, and my body hurts."
"Okay. I won't push. Tell me...the specs on the new water park."
It was gibberish, of course. But just because engineering was another language, not because Rodney was at diminished consciousness, so Jack nodded and made occasional, encouraging noises.
When the paramedics arrived, Jack put on the stern look he used on undergraduates looking for extra credit and demanded to know if either of them had treated a sentinel before. They hadn't, but that was no worse than Jack had expected. "Then you are going to have to follow instructions very carefully. You, start a glucose IV and then get out whatever we'll need to brace that arm. You, start telling me what pain killers you're carrying--" and then Jack realized his mistake. He didn't have Rodney's records. He had a copy in his car and in his office and on his desk at home, but he hadn't taken anything with him to lunch but a tiny wirebound notebook. He hadn't even remembered that he'd need Rodney's records until this moment. He'd never worked with a partner who had so many lists that they couldn't be memorized.
"They put my briefcase on the table," Rodney said, his voice grinding a scathing criticism of Jack's mistake.
Feeling like shit, Jack retrieved the briefcase. In it was a full-sized three-ring notebook with section dividers. Jack's first and second choices for pain relief, the paramedics weren't carrying. Jack went with his third choice.
"That dose is too high," the earnest young man protested. "It'll depress his breathing."
Jack sighed. "No, it won't. And it probably won't even last half an hour. His metabolism has met this one before. The authority is mine. The legal liability is mine. Give the goddamn shot."
"Yeah. Go, Jack," Rodney panted, pressing himself into the upholstery as the second paramedic tried to coax him into submitting to having his blood pressure taken.
"No arguing from you, either," Jack said, only partly teasing. "As soon as you start to feel that shot, we need to stabilize that arm and move you."
"I've been thinking about that," Rodney said. He'd visibly gone down hill in the very short time Jack had been with him. The shaking was worse now, and his skin had gone from pale to pasty grey. His breathing was shallow and much faster than Jack liked. "I think I'll just wait here for John. That's...a better idea."
Jack shook his head.
"No. Really. I've...been thinking and...it's probably just a pulled muscle or something. I'll feel better in a few minutes. Maybe some ice...all this really isn't necessary."
Jack leaned down to whisper near his ear. "Yes it is," he said. "We need to take care of this pain and get you under observation. And if you endanger yourself by trying to pull stupid shit while he's gone, John is going to be completely pissed when he does get here."
Jack padded the splint with gauze, and as gently as he could, lifted it into place around Rodney's arm. Even with the drug in his system, it hurt. Rodney cursed. Loudly and continuously. Jack had been expecting that, though, and his hands never once hesitated or jerked. When it was done--finally--Rodney was in tears again and Jack...was thinking about crying himself. He held on to Rodney's good hand and whispered, "Breathe, just breathe. This is good, this is good."
Compared to splinting, packing the arm in ice and lifting Rodney onto the stretcher was a piece of cake. Getting Jack into the back of the ambulance was harder. There was no room for the chair, and no good place for an extra person to sit. Jack wound up perched on a narrow almost-bench clinging to the handle of something--he wasn't sure what--so he wouldn't slide off onto the floor. "Rodney," he said firmly, "Look right here. My eyes. This is the easy part, right? We can do this."
Rodney's eyes weren't focusing. That was the drug. But his face was turned in the right direction, so Jack counted it as a win.
"Do we run the siren?" one of the paramedics asked.
"No," God, no. Speed wasn't nearly as important as comfort.
"I want to call John," Rodney said, trying to keep his voice even.
"He'll have left the hotel by now. Rodney. Keep your eyes on me, all right? John is coming. You'll be all right."
"He's in Florida. That damn coliseum. Always that damn coliseum...."
"I know," Jack said helplessly.
The trip was no worse than Jack would have expected. The Emergency Room was in Rodney's usual hospital, and Rodney wasn't the only sentinel they treated. That was an advantage of sorts. Or at least not another strike against them.
They didn't have to wait for a doctor, although the brief intake was almost surreal. When Jack was being seen himself, medical personal often asked the same question repeatedly or didn't take the answers he gave at face value. Speaking to a doctor as a guide, though, was a completely different experience, one Jack had forgotten during the long years since he last advocated for a sentinel. The doctor listened very attentively, accepted Jack's evaluation of the situation without complaint, and followed Jack's recommendations.
The first thing, of course, was to x-ray the arm, now, before the pain meds wore off. There was no waiting for this either; a tech brought in a portable x-ray machine. The second thing--while waiting for the pictures to process--was to start another IV and see if they could ward off distributive shock. Then Jack took out the ring binder, and he and the doctor tried to work out a plan which--they hoped--would keep Rodney in the narrow space where the pain was bearable but he wasn't in danger of overdose.
Not fast enough. The drug wore off more quickly than Jack had expected and almost all at once. Jack, careful of the IV line, took Rodney's cold hand between both of his and tried to talk to him. Rodney kept asking what time it was. Of course, what he really wanted to know was how much longer before John came.
Jack tried to keep things low-key. His voice certain. His heart rate down. Eye contact. It had been a long time since Jack had practiced as a guide--and never, dear god, with anyone as fragile as Rodney McKay--but he remembered the rhythms.
Rodney clung.
The x-ray came back positive for a fracture in Rodney's wrist. The doctor wanted to set the arm--the more immobile, the less pain there would be--instead of just putting it in a brace, but Rodney would have to be under for that, and anyway, he'd never had a broken bone before. They'd have to test to see if his body would react to plaster or fiberglass.
"What time is it?"
"Not yet, Rodney."
The second painkiller was administered with the IV, so it hit more slowly. After a few minutes, Rodney slumped against the pillows and stilled. It was as much exhaustion as relief. Jack asked for a damp towel and wiped down his face. Rodney managed a small, ugly smile. "Heh. 'Jack I have this tiny favor. I'm sure you won't mind.'" It was a weak parody of John.
Jack tried to smile back. "Oh, yeah. I'm going to get him for this."
An orderly poked his head in to the little curtained alcove they'd been given. "Dr. Kelso? There's a phone call for you."
Jack did smile then. "That will be John with his flight information. I'll be right back. You," he pointed at the orderly. "You watch him. I will be right back."
"How is he? "
"He's...stable." Not okay. Not nearly okay. "Where are you?"
A broken laugh, or maybe tears. "In jail. One of the lawyers found out I was leaving. I, um, something about contempt of court...."
"No--" Jack gasped.
"I need you to call Rodney's doctor. Not the one in Cascade, the one in Vermont. Beckett. Sam Beckett. He has friends in sentinel law. He'll help. I'll, I'll get there as quickly as I can. I'm sorry--"
Somehow, Jack said the right, reassuring things. Somehow, he found the number in Rodney's binder and made the call to the doctor. Somehow, he made himself go back to Rodney.
"How soon?" Rodney asked.
"Rodney, I'm sorry--"
"What? No--"
"John can't come. He's a witness in an ongoing trial, and the judge won't release him."
"You're lying," Rodney said loudly, anger rallying is strength. "John--"
"Will be here as soon as he can. But I don't know when that will be. You need to calm down. We still need to set the arm and get you admitted--"
"This is what you've been waiting for isn't it? A chance to get me out of the way?"
What? Jack's heart sank. Rodney was incoherent. They'd have to get him on oxygen and probably something to get his blood pressure up. Jack reached for the curtain, meaning to call for a doctor.
"Did you think you were hiding it? I know you want him for yourself. I can smell it on you. Well, this is your chance, isn't it? You won't even have to try very hard."
Oh. Not incoherence. Paranoia. Jack had never seen it this bad, but he had seen it before. He reached out--
Rodney's eyes widened. "Stay away from me."
"Brilliant. You've figured me out. If you die John will coming running to me. And, hey, compared to you, I'm actually a prize."
Predictably contentious, Rodney snapped, "He'd never forgive you!"
Jack nodded. "Right. He would never forgive me, and he would never get over it. Never. The sun rises and sets on you. So you had damn well better do what ever it takes not to die."
Rodney squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, god, Jack. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. You've been so good to us--"
"Aw, hell." Jack heaved himself up onto the exam table and balanced him weight against Rodney's hip. "Easy. It's all right." He rubbed his palm gently up and down Rodney's chest. "Don't worry about it. It's all right."
"I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. John would never forgive you if you left me."
"I won't leave you."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"
"I know. I won't leave you. But right now, you need to try to relax."
"I know," Rodney said meekly.
"All right. Now, the nurse is preparing a sample of the different materials, so we can tell what kind of cast you can tolerate. Plaster would be best, but--"
"Plaster is fine," Rodney whispered, closing his eyes. "When I was in school we didn't have CAD. We made all our models out of balsa wood or plaster. Lots of models. Drew all our plans by hand, too...."
"Oh," Jack said, feeling a little stupid. "Right."