Snakeheads: A Love Story (R; please read warnings)
Title: Snakeheads: A Love Story
Author: Leah (taste_is_sweet)
Word Count: 17,606
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard; McKay/Sheppard/Other
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic depiction of injuries; Sort of major character death (yes, I mean it here too).
Summary: "Goa'uld never let their hosts go," Daniel said, and the hard edge of pain behind his words froze John to the core.
Notes: This story was directly inspired by lavvyan's jaffa_for_hire AU, wherein John Sheppard is host to Mer'deth, a brilliant, arrogant, and not-entirely fearsome Goa'uld. This story is a sequel to her Lord of the Sea, and is a companion piece to her story The Extraction of the Goa'uld Mer'deth: A Brief Summary. You don't actually have to read those fics to understand this one, but I really hope you will anyway. They're not very long, but they're typical examples of lavvyan's wonderful and inspirational storytelling. I'm very happy that she is so generous to let other people play in the universes she creates. ♥
This story incorporates some comment fic I originally wrote in response to "Lord of the Sea." Other stories in the Jaffa for Hire 'verse can be found here at the Lj community.
My beta for this was the incomparably incredibly Squeaky, though I want to give props to anna_bird, who was all set to beta as well until she was laid low by a cold.
I swear to God, Mer, I know what I'm doing! If you don't pull back and let me take care of this, we're both going to be dead! John whispered harshly inside his skull. He could feel the Goa'uld's fear and it was making it hard for him to concentrate. Not to mention that intense physical activity and combat weren't exactly Mer'deth's strengths.
"Sorry!" Mer'deth whispered a little too loudly with John's voice. John would have winced if he'd had control of his facial muscles. He'd gotten used to hearing his voice spoken by someone else years ago, but he knew the tense line of panic wasn't him at all. Mer'deth released control so abruptly that John stumbled.
"Thanks," he murmured, knowing the sarcasm would be completely lost on Mer'deth. He slowly eased his way around the corner, Zat gun ready.
He shot the two Marines before they even registered that someone was behind them, trying not to feel guilty about it as he pelted down the corridor. He'd only shot them once, after all. They'd just wake up with a headache, whereas John had no illusions about what would happen to him if he and Mer'deth were caught.
I still think you should just kill them, Mer'deth huffed.
"No, you don't." John rolled his eyes. "Give it up, Mer--you've never killed anyone, ever, let alone after you made me your host."
You chose me for your host, remember? and John carefully didn't hear the hurt transmitted with Mer'deth's message. And I've destroyed entire solar systems!
"Uninhabited," John hissed. He threw himself around the corner just in time to avoid a barrage of gunfire--looked like the SGC was still using P90s, the cheap bastards--then ducked back for just long enough to fire off another shot, felling the Marine. He took a second to think, mapping out Mer'deth's Ha'tak ship in his head. It was a given that the SGC teams would have the Tel'tak and Glider bays guarded, but if he could get to the ring transporter….
What are you doing? Mer'deth demanded. The ring transporters are that way! Right! Go right!
"Sorry," John murmured, skidding to a stop then launching himself in the opposite direction.
I knew I should never have told Ba'al about the ZPM! Mer'deth wailed. Of course that misbegotten worm would've led those cursed Tau'ri right to me!
"Well, maybe next time you shouldn't gloat so damn much. And last I checked, I was a 'Tau'ri' too, by the way." John was just glad he'd had the Goa'uld sharing his skull for so long that he'd learned to multi-task, having conversations mostly on autopilot while the rest of his mind focused on what needed to be done.
He couldn't tell if Mer'deth had heard his thoughts or not, but the Goa'uld sounded a little guilty. Oh, right. No offence.
"None taken," John muttered. He heard the sound of someone behind the door to the transporter room right before the panels slid open, and he cursed and rolled, hearing the crackle of another Zat as the energy sizzled right through the place his body had been. He hurtled to his feet, spinning as he did so, lifting his Zat to fire.
And stopped dead.
"Holy fuck," Cameron Mitchell said, gaping. "Sheppard?"
John fired and Mitchell went down twitching. John whirled and raced into the transporter room.
He recognized Teal'c just before the staff blast caught him in the belly, exactly where the Goa'uld would have been if he were a Jaffa. Standard combat training for Goa'uld's warriors, intended to be a killing blow.
All this went distantly through John's mind as the force of the blast smashed him to the floor. He dimly heard Mer'deth screaming something that might have been his name, and then endorphins were flooding his system so thick and fast that he actually burst out laughing.
His last thought before he plummeted into unconsciousness was the warm knowledge that Mer'deth was trying to heal him.
The dust was blinding him.
John tried to blink it away, his eyes aching, and then panicked when everything around him was just as dark. He couldn't see anything at all.
"Rodney!" he yelled, choking on dust. "Rodney!" He heard his own voice sharp as a gunshot, but nobody answered.
He tried to crawl in the direction that he'd last seen him, but as soon as he moved the thrumming, background pain exploded up his spine and into his head, leaving him nauseous and gasping. He threw up before he could control it, barely managed to move his head enough so he wouldn't inhale it back into his lungs. He knew the coppery salt taste in his mouth was blood.
John lay still for awhile after that, floating somewhere that wasn't quite conscious. The pain settled like snow, and he followed it like a trail, dimly aware of the throbbing in his legs, the dull agony in his abdomen and behind his ribs, the blood in his mouth. He slowly realized that the solid cold underneath him was smoothed rock; the solid, rough surfaces all around him were metal and stone, pieces of the Ancient outpost.
There had been an explosion.
John remembered: He was standing next to Rodney in what Rodney was pretty sure was the main laboratory of the outpost, the other two members of his team off somewhere down one of the tunnels, out of sight but within easy radio contact, leaving John and Rodney by themselves. John had stayed with Rodney ostensibly so he could help with anything requiring the ATA gene, but mostly so he could be with Rodney, far enough away for propriety in case the motley twosome came back, but close enough so that he could feel Rodney's body heat, reach out and brush his hand any time he wanted. And Rodney's quick, surprisingly shy smiles in return were worth all the waiting in the world.
Until Rodney stopped smiling, started hitting keys with a pace close to frantic, eyes going wider and wider and muttering Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh my God. And then his face went white.
"What is it?" John asked, picking up on Rodney's fear, feeling it pulsing in his chest. "What's happening?"
Rodney ignored him. He grabbed John's tac vest and started to run, yanking John after him. His free hand hit the radio in his ear. "Kowalski! Rothman! It's a trap, get--"
(And then dark, and then waking up in dark, and then nothing but silence and pain.)
"…John?"
"Rodney?" Rodney sounded bad--he sounded really bad, weak and wet like there was something in his lungs. But he was there and he was alive, and that was all that mattered. "Rodney! I'm here!" John moved towards the noise, dragging his broken body along the floor. He was prepared for the pain this time, but the agony still made it take years to cross the tiny space between them, until he could put his hand out and feel the skin of Rodney's face and all the blood on it.
Rodney's hand clasped around John's hand, holding on tight. "Oh, thank God," he breathed. "I thought you'd been buried too." John could feel the foam coming out of Rodney's mouth, smell dust and copper. He could practically feel Rodney dying.
"It's okay, Rodney," John said. "I'm here. It's going to be all right."
"No, John, it's not going to be all right." Rodney said, not quite panicked but urgent. "I'm trapped from the chest down, I can't even feel anything. And Kowalski and Rothman aren't answering their radios. They can't help us, even if they're still alive. And I know I won't be for very long."
"Don't say that, Rodney," John said, but there wasn't enough air in his lungs to put command into his voice, and when he tried to hit his own radio he found he was too weak to lift his hand. "We'll miss our check-in. They--they'll--"
"They'll be too late, John," Rodney said. He didn't sound afraid, just the same urgency in his voice. "Too late for me, and probably Rothman and Kowalski as well. But…" He swallowed, coughed, and John could hear the awful gurgling and the noise of pain Rodney made afterwards. "But not for you."
"Not for both of us!" John snapped breathlessly. He spat blood, heard the slap of it hitting stone. He was shivering. "You're still here, Rodney, and so am I. Just…" He took as deep a breath as he could, with ribs most likely broken and stabbing into his lungs. "Just give me a minute and I'll dig you out. We can find the tunnel back to the gate," he gasped. "Get help."
"You can't," Rodney said simply. "Can you even walk? I didn't think so," he went on before John could answer. "The ceiling fell on me. I don't even know how many metric tons of rock that is. If it wasn't for--right, sorry. I mean, I should be dead now. I will be soon."
"Shut up!" John hissed. "You--you're not--" Something shifted inside him, and suddenly he had nothing but blood in his mouth, he was drowning in it. He was distantly aware of Rodney calling his name, of their fingers intertwined; John holding Rodney's hand so tightly he might be breaking his fingers, Rodney letting him. When he finally coughed it was like a thunderbolt going through his chest. The world grayed out.
He woke to Rodney calling his name.
"M'here," he murmured, warmth of blood against his lips but the rest of him freezing cold.
"John! Please--please don't talk, okay?" Rodney said. He sounded weaker now, fading, but his voice was still strident, fiercely demanding John's attention. "Listen. Just listen."
John didn't have enough breath to answer, so he just squeezed Rodney's hand.
"Just--whatever happens, just…I love you," Rodney said. John could hear the labored wheeze of Rodney's breathing. "We both love you, so much. And maybe, maybe you won't forgive us for this, but, but it doesn't matter. We love you."
"Rodney." Concussion, John thought. That explained how Rodney was talking.
Rodney tightened his grip on John's hand. "Don't worry," he said softly. "I'm not…there won't be any pain for me. I'm sorry that it will hurt you, but it's the only way to save your life."
"Rodney," John hissed. "Stop--"
"I love you," Rodney said. "So long."
John heard Rodney's gentle exhale, like he was letting out the last of his life. His hand relaxed once and went still.
"No, Rodney," John said, breathless now with horror instead of pain. "No, Rodney! NO!"
He felt something touch his hand, warm and wet and oily, like a snake.
And then something hit like a pickaxe in the back of his neck, going in and in and in.
"You're not getting it," John said, for what had to be the fortieth time. "I'm not a prisoner. I volunteered. Why the hell do you think he's letting me do all the talking?" He strained against the restraints on reflex, wishing to hell that Mer'deth would just take over for a second and break them, but each time he moved his abdomen got a jolt of pain.
Stop doing that! Mer'deth hissed worriedly to him. Do you want them to shoot you again? I can't just keep healing you, you know!
John relaxed with a sigh, glowering at SG-1, who were all gathered around him in the Mountain's infirmary like he was some prize bull at a 4H club meeting. He could feel Mer'deth's exhaustion like an echo of the pain still gnawing at his guts. Mer'deth was working so hard to heal him that John was more than a little worried the Goa'uld would kill himself with the effort.
Daniel Jackson rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, looking frustrated. "I'm sure you understand it's a little difficult to believe you, considering a Goa'uld can use its host's voice."
"Besides," Cameron Mitchell put in, "I know Sheppard. There's no way in hell he'd volunteer to have a snake in his head!" He was sitting next to Daniel, straddling his own chair backwards with his forearms on the backrest and his chin on top of them. He looked relaxed and vaguely amused by this whole thing, which neatly disguised the tension John knew was roiling underneath.
"I still do not see why we cannot simply remove the Goa'uld, since we have the technology to do so," Teal'c said. He was standing against the wall, staring at John with typically Jaffa cool disdain.
"Because we need that ZPM," Sam Carter said to him. She and Cam had both moved up a rank since John had last seen them. She was still just as beautiful, though, even looking at him with the exact same expression as Teal'c. "It wasn't on your ship," she said to John, though he knew she thought she was speaking directly to Mer'deth. "So you've obviously hidden it somewhere, which was clever, considering you must know that we won't remove you from Colonel Sheppard until we get that information."
"Believe me, he wants to tell you," John said. Mer'deth had been clamoring so loudly about it that it was giving him a worse headache than he'd woken up with. John figured the only reason Mer'deth hadn't charged to the forefront already and blurted everything was that there'd be even less hope of convincing SG-1 that John was, well, John if his voice changed and his eyes started glowing. And unless he could convince them that he really did want Mer'deth in his head, the Goa'uld was toast.
John couldn't let that happen.
"I know how hard it is to believe that I'm me," John said, trying to sound exasperated and not actually afraid. He turned his head as much as he was able with the band around his neck to look at Cameron. "That I'm really the one talking and Mer'deth isn't just using my voice. But you got to believe me, here. I did fight, in the beginning. God, I fought so hard I think I would've killed us both. So--Mer let me go."
"Right," Cam scoffed. "And then you were so overcome by his generosity that you changed your mind." He shook his head. "Nope, not going to buy it."
"Goa'uld never let their hosts go," Daniel said, and the hard edge of pain behind his words froze John to the core.
"I believe that is the plot of Beauty and the Beast," Teal'c said.
"Yes it is," Daniel said. He was starting to sound angry now. Not good. "I'm sure if we wait long enough you'll give us the plot to The Wizard of Oz. He stood, coming so close to John that he loomed over him. "We're not interested in your games, Mer'deth. Where's the ZPM?"
"You're going to rip him out of my head!" John barked. "Why the hell should he tell you?"
"We have many ways of procuring this information," Teal'c said. He didn't have to come close to loom. "It would be better to simply tell us now."
"What, you're going to torture me?" John demanded, aghast.
"Believe me, we don't want to hurt your host," Sam said, looking apologetic but frighteningly resolute. "But that ZPM is vital for the defense of Earth."
They're going to torture you?" Mer'deth sounded even more horrified than John. Oh, no. No, no, no, no. I can't let them do that! What if they hurt you?"
"I think hurting me's kind of the point, Mer." John said out loud. SG-1 looked at him strangely, probably thinking this was some kind of ploy. "It doesn't matter," he went on quickly, "you can heal me, right? But that ZPM's the only leverage we have here!"
I know, John, Mer'deth said. But I don't care. I'm not going to let them hurt you!
John felt Mer'deth surging forward, and his whole body arched in the restraints as he fought him back, resisting in a way he hadn't since he'd willingly bared his chest to the Goa'uld two years before.
"What's happening?" Sam asked worriedly. Everyone was crowding around his bed, no clue what was going on.
"Listen to me!" John ground out, forcing the words between his teeth as he struggled to keep his body under his own control. "Mer'deth's brilliant, a genius. You need him. He can build…build you weapons, shields. Help you fight the Ori! You have--!"
John's words cut off on a cry. His body spasmed and then fell back to the bed as Mer'deth finally wrested control from him. For a second the world glowed orange as John looked out through what were now Mer'deth's eyes.
"I'll tell you where the ZPM is," Mer'deth said breathlessly with John's voice. "I'll give you the coordinates. Just--just don't hurt John. Please, don't hurt him. I'll tell you anything!"
"Well, that was easy," Cam drawled. He sounded almost disappointed.
There was no more pain.
John slept, or he thought he might have slept; it felt more like sleeping than anything else. (Dream of his body moving, like he was watching himself from somewhere distant, warm and safe.) All the pain was gone, cut off like it had never existed. As if the explosion, being wounded, Rodney's death had never happened.
He thought he might have gotten out of the ruins like that, if the ruins were real. He knew Kowalski and Rothman were dead because of the sorrow he felt (except that it wasn't his own, somehow, like he was looking at it through a window). Sometimes, though, he could feel Rodney's death, a sudden agony of loss, and the grief would be his and not only his, and it would build and build like a never-ending echo until John thought it would kill him and the pain of his injuries would come roaring back and he wanted it, wanted to die--and then it would be gone again, boxed up, and John would feel nothing except the warmth and the safety and the lack of pain and there would be a voice saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's all right. You're all right. You can sleep, John. And John would.
And then he was staring up at a bright blue sky, on ground that was fragrant and meadow-soft beneath him. He was out of the Ancient outpost, aboveground again. He didn't remember getting here. His legs felt mostly fine, but his abdomen and lungs still hurt like hell, like a wound that had only started to heal. It was so bad that for a long time all he could do was lay there, arms wrapped around his torso, trying to breathe through the pain.
Someone was talking to him.
I'm sorry. I didn't know you were that badly hurt. How could you have even been talking when you were that badly hurt? Don't you have any sense of self-preservation at all? I can't do any more. Not right now. I need to rest, or I'll die and then we'll both be screwed. And by 'screwed' I mean, more screwed than we are now. Because we won't be late for our check-in for another half-hour, and I'm not entirely certain either of us are going to make it until then. I should've healed your internal bleeding first. I know that. Bad call. But it was dark, and the ceiling had come down, and I think I might've picked up Rodney's claustrophobia because--
"Rodney? Rodney!" John tried to sit up, only to fall over onto his left side in the grass, curled around the flare of agony. He coughed and spat more blood, but he didn't know if it was his stomach or his lungs. I shouldn't be alive, he thought with numb certainty. But Rodney was there--John had heard him…"
Oh, no, oh no. It's not Rodney, John. I'm so sorry. Rodney's dead. Do you remember what happened? He…he died, John. I tried to save him, I really did, but he was so badly hurt, and you weren't trapped so you had a better chance, and we didn't--we couldn't leave you.
John closed his eyes against the merciless blue of the sky, feeling the tears roll down his face into the grass. Rodney was dead. He knew it as certainly as he did for the rest of his team, and the anguish of their deaths (oh God, Rodney) was his own and not his own. And Rodney had loved them both so much, and now he was gone--
John's heart staggered into pounding. The feeling of wrongness slid into his mind like a blade.
"Who are you," he demanded, spitting it out like the blood between his teeth.
Please, John! The voice--the voice that wasn't Rodney's, the voice that was in his head--sounded frightened, nearly frantic. Please, please calm down! You're going to make your injuries worse, and I can't help you!
"Who are you?" But John realized with another jolt of adrenaline and pain that he knew. He knew what this was; he knew.
I'm Mer'deth, the voice said.
And yeah, that was a Goa'uld name. John had become a host to a fucking Goa'uld.
John woke up with a headache so bad it felt like someone was prying off his skull.
There was nothing but black emptiness where the Goa'uld had been: vast and cold as the distance between the stars. It was like when Rodney had died, only worse. Then, John's pain had been mitigated by rage. His struggle for the sovereignty of his own body had been all-consuming, eclipsing grief and memory, even thought, until he was suddenly in a medical bed in a Tok'ra tunnel, and he was free and Mer'deth was gone.
After that, when Mer'deth was inside him again, his in a way John had never experienced with anyone before, their mourning was a shared thing, each using the broken parts of the other to make something mostly whole again. They had both loved Rodney; when they lost him they each had lost just as much. There was some comfort in that.
Eventually comfort had become a kind of love in its own right. John had stopped thinking of Mer'deth as a parasite long ago, but at some point he'd also stopped thinking of him as a passenger. Somewhere along the way, Mer'deth had become the other half of John's soul.
And now he was gone too.
John bit back the scream clawing at his throat, and it lodged there like a stone. He was so full of anguish and horror and rage that John thought he might die if it let it out. He clenched his jaw so tightly it immediately started aching. He couldn't help the tears, though. John swiped the water from his face, trying to control his breathing and waiting for the voice in his head that wouldn't come.
"Hey," someone said softly, and John's eyes snapped open. It was Mitchell, expression gentle and hopeful and satisfied, like he'd just saved John's life. "I know this is probably--"
John flung himself out of the bed and into Mitchell, knocking the chair over and bringing both of them down to the floor. His hands were around the Colonel's neck, and he grinned in vicious satisfaction at how loud the crack was when the back of Mitchell's head struck the concrete.
"Where is he?" John demanded, his voice low and growling. He wasn't crying anymore; the fury had taken care of that."Is he still alive?"
Mitchell was struggling to breathe, his hands prying uselessly at John's fingers. John had no doubt Mitchell was a better fighter than this, but he hadn't expected this attack and right now John had no problem with killing him and Mitchell knew it.
John lifted Mitchell's head just enough so he could crack it down again. "Is he still alive?" he snarled. "What did you do with him?"
Stupid--he'd been stupid. It hadn't even occurred to him that there would be other people in the Infirmary, or that they might call for help. He suddenly had two large men hauling back on his arms, lifting him bodily off the floor and away from Mitchell. John kicked and fought and bit and raged, but then Mitchell grabbed one of his flailing legs, and someone else took the other one, and the last thing John felt was his head being wrenched to the side, and someone plunging a hypodermic into his shoulder.
The dark that followed was just a new kind of emptiness, but part of John was grateful for it.
He snatched his gun out of the holster and lifted it to his head.
No!
John's hand jerked violently as the gun fired, sending the bullet streaking off into the sky. His arm swung away from his body, his finger convulsing over the trigger until the magazine was empty. The Goa'uld abruptly let him go, and John's arm dropped to the ground.
I'm not going to hurt you, John! Please listen to me!
It took three tries before John could get to his feet, and the blast of vertigo that came with it was almost enough to send him sprawling again. He forced his leaden legs to move, carrying him swaying and lurching towards the Gate.
He crashed into the DHD, and then had to wait a long time for the world to stop swimming. Hopefully not too long--he had to dial out before the SGC tried to dial in, or they'd know something had happened and they'd come to make sure his team was all right. John couldn't let them find him like this.
Mer'deth was screaming something like an audible migraine in the back of his head, trying to get John to stop, insisting that he was going to die like this, if he didn't rest and wait until Mer'deth could heal him. John just grinned, dripping blood on the DHD. He tried to wipe it away but only succeeded in smearing red. Maybe whoever came to find them wouldn't notice.
The snake was scared for his own oily skin, John knew, because if John died he would as well. John wanted to live, but he'd gladly kill himself if it was the only way of taking the Goa'uld with him.
He sure as hell wasn't going to bring him back to Earth.
I've been on Earth for five years! Mre'deth shouted, and wasn't that just a kick in John's already bloody teeth, because John had only met Rodney four years ago, which meant he'd never met Rodney at all.
It was all a lie: every argument, every smile, every shared beer or crazy story or sorrow or joy, or every secret, forbidden stroke and push and thrust of skin-to-skin. John hadn't been in love with Rodney; he'd been in love with whomever Mer'deth had wanted Rodney to be. And now Rodney was dead and John didn't even know who he was mourning. He hadn't ever known.
That's not true! Mer'deth was like a siren in John's brain. He was there! He was always there! He loved you--we both did! I still love you.
John gritted his teeth and hit the gate keys at random.
Wait. What--what are you doing? No! John was staggering towards the Gate, trying to throw himself into the wash of energy. Mer'deth grabbed control again, except the Goa'uld was almost as weak as John was and could only send him sprawling to the ground. The impact was like an explosion behind John's ribcage and he almost blacked out. He managed to hold onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth.
John yanked control of his body back, smiling grimly at Mer'deth's squawk of fright. John started crawling towards the Gate, then managed to heave himself to his feet. He all but fell through the event horizon.
The Gate spilled him out on a planet in winter, blizzard raging around him. John dropped to his knees forward into the snow, spattering drops of red. The cold was already stinging the skin of his cheeks, his fingertips, settling in.
He should've just dialed the SGC, he realized, thrown himself into the iris. John thought about doing that, but he was too weak and too cold to move again. It wasn't like this wouldn't do the trick anyway.
Don't do this, John, Mer'deth begged him. Please. Please don't do this. I can't--I'm too weak. I can't move you. Please get up! You're going to die!
"Yeah," John said, barely a whisper into the snow. "You and me both." He closed his eyes.
The snow floated down, not even that cold anymore. John waited.
On to Part Two
On to Part Three
Author: Leah (taste_is_sweet)
Word Count: 17,606
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard; McKay/Sheppard/Other
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic depiction of injuries; Sort of major character death (yes, I mean it here too).
Summary: "Goa'uld never let their hosts go," Daniel said, and the hard edge of pain behind his words froze John to the core.
Notes: This story was directly inspired by lavvyan's jaffa_for_hire AU, wherein John Sheppard is host to Mer'deth, a brilliant, arrogant, and not-entirely fearsome Goa'uld. This story is a sequel to her Lord of the Sea, and is a companion piece to her story The Extraction of the Goa'uld Mer'deth: A Brief Summary. You don't actually have to read those fics to understand this one, but I really hope you will anyway. They're not very long, but they're typical examples of lavvyan's wonderful and inspirational storytelling. I'm very happy that she is so generous to let other people play in the universes she creates. ♥
This story incorporates some comment fic I originally wrote in response to "Lord of the Sea." Other stories in the Jaffa for Hire 'verse can be found here at the Lj community.
My beta for this was the incomparably incredibly Squeaky, though I want to give props to anna_bird, who was all set to beta as well until she was laid low by a cold.
I swear to God, Mer, I know what I'm doing! If you don't pull back and let me take care of this, we're both going to be dead! John whispered harshly inside his skull. He could feel the Goa'uld's fear and it was making it hard for him to concentrate. Not to mention that intense physical activity and combat weren't exactly Mer'deth's strengths.
"Sorry!" Mer'deth whispered a little too loudly with John's voice. John would have winced if he'd had control of his facial muscles. He'd gotten used to hearing his voice spoken by someone else years ago, but he knew the tense line of panic wasn't him at all. Mer'deth released control so abruptly that John stumbled.
"Thanks," he murmured, knowing the sarcasm would be completely lost on Mer'deth. He slowly eased his way around the corner, Zat gun ready.
He shot the two Marines before they even registered that someone was behind them, trying not to feel guilty about it as he pelted down the corridor. He'd only shot them once, after all. They'd just wake up with a headache, whereas John had no illusions about what would happen to him if he and Mer'deth were caught.
I still think you should just kill them, Mer'deth huffed.
"No, you don't." John rolled his eyes. "Give it up, Mer--you've never killed anyone, ever, let alone after you made me your host."
You chose me for your host, remember? and John carefully didn't hear the hurt transmitted with Mer'deth's message. And I've destroyed entire solar systems!
"Uninhabited," John hissed. He threw himself around the corner just in time to avoid a barrage of gunfire--looked like the SGC was still using P90s, the cheap bastards--then ducked back for just long enough to fire off another shot, felling the Marine. He took a second to think, mapping out Mer'deth's Ha'tak ship in his head. It was a given that the SGC teams would have the Tel'tak and Glider bays guarded, but if he could get to the ring transporter….
What are you doing? Mer'deth demanded. The ring transporters are that way! Right! Go right!
"Sorry," John murmured, skidding to a stop then launching himself in the opposite direction.
I knew I should never have told Ba'al about the ZPM! Mer'deth wailed. Of course that misbegotten worm would've led those cursed Tau'ri right to me!
"Well, maybe next time you shouldn't gloat so damn much. And last I checked, I was a 'Tau'ri' too, by the way." John was just glad he'd had the Goa'uld sharing his skull for so long that he'd learned to multi-task, having conversations mostly on autopilot while the rest of his mind focused on what needed to be done.
He couldn't tell if Mer'deth had heard his thoughts or not, but the Goa'uld sounded a little guilty. Oh, right. No offence.
"None taken," John muttered. He heard the sound of someone behind the door to the transporter room right before the panels slid open, and he cursed and rolled, hearing the crackle of another Zat as the energy sizzled right through the place his body had been. He hurtled to his feet, spinning as he did so, lifting his Zat to fire.
And stopped dead.
"Holy fuck," Cameron Mitchell said, gaping. "Sheppard?"
John fired and Mitchell went down twitching. John whirled and raced into the transporter room.
He recognized Teal'c just before the staff blast caught him in the belly, exactly where the Goa'uld would have been if he were a Jaffa. Standard combat training for Goa'uld's warriors, intended to be a killing blow.
All this went distantly through John's mind as the force of the blast smashed him to the floor. He dimly heard Mer'deth screaming something that might have been his name, and then endorphins were flooding his system so thick and fast that he actually burst out laughing.
His last thought before he plummeted into unconsciousness was the warm knowledge that Mer'deth was trying to heal him.
The dust was blinding him.
John tried to blink it away, his eyes aching, and then panicked when everything around him was just as dark. He couldn't see anything at all.
"Rodney!" he yelled, choking on dust. "Rodney!" He heard his own voice sharp as a gunshot, but nobody answered.
He tried to crawl in the direction that he'd last seen him, but as soon as he moved the thrumming, background pain exploded up his spine and into his head, leaving him nauseous and gasping. He threw up before he could control it, barely managed to move his head enough so he wouldn't inhale it back into his lungs. He knew the coppery salt taste in his mouth was blood.
John lay still for awhile after that, floating somewhere that wasn't quite conscious. The pain settled like snow, and he followed it like a trail, dimly aware of the throbbing in his legs, the dull agony in his abdomen and behind his ribs, the blood in his mouth. He slowly realized that the solid cold underneath him was smoothed rock; the solid, rough surfaces all around him were metal and stone, pieces of the Ancient outpost.
There had been an explosion.
John remembered: He was standing next to Rodney in what Rodney was pretty sure was the main laboratory of the outpost, the other two members of his team off somewhere down one of the tunnels, out of sight but within easy radio contact, leaving John and Rodney by themselves. John had stayed with Rodney ostensibly so he could help with anything requiring the ATA gene, but mostly so he could be with Rodney, far enough away for propriety in case the motley twosome came back, but close enough so that he could feel Rodney's body heat, reach out and brush his hand any time he wanted. And Rodney's quick, surprisingly shy smiles in return were worth all the waiting in the world.
Until Rodney stopped smiling, started hitting keys with a pace close to frantic, eyes going wider and wider and muttering Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh my God. And then his face went white.
"What is it?" John asked, picking up on Rodney's fear, feeling it pulsing in his chest. "What's happening?"
Rodney ignored him. He grabbed John's tac vest and started to run, yanking John after him. His free hand hit the radio in his ear. "Kowalski! Rothman! It's a trap, get--"
(And then dark, and then waking up in dark, and then nothing but silence and pain.)
"…John?"
"Rodney?" Rodney sounded bad--he sounded really bad, weak and wet like there was something in his lungs. But he was there and he was alive, and that was all that mattered. "Rodney! I'm here!" John moved towards the noise, dragging his broken body along the floor. He was prepared for the pain this time, but the agony still made it take years to cross the tiny space between them, until he could put his hand out and feel the skin of Rodney's face and all the blood on it.
Rodney's hand clasped around John's hand, holding on tight. "Oh, thank God," he breathed. "I thought you'd been buried too." John could feel the foam coming out of Rodney's mouth, smell dust and copper. He could practically feel Rodney dying.
"It's okay, Rodney," John said. "I'm here. It's going to be all right."
"No, John, it's not going to be all right." Rodney said, not quite panicked but urgent. "I'm trapped from the chest down, I can't even feel anything. And Kowalski and Rothman aren't answering their radios. They can't help us, even if they're still alive. And I know I won't be for very long."
"Don't say that, Rodney," John said, but there wasn't enough air in his lungs to put command into his voice, and when he tried to hit his own radio he found he was too weak to lift his hand. "We'll miss our check-in. They--they'll--"
"They'll be too late, John," Rodney said. He didn't sound afraid, just the same urgency in his voice. "Too late for me, and probably Rothman and Kowalski as well. But…" He swallowed, coughed, and John could hear the awful gurgling and the noise of pain Rodney made afterwards. "But not for you."
"Not for both of us!" John snapped breathlessly. He spat blood, heard the slap of it hitting stone. He was shivering. "You're still here, Rodney, and so am I. Just…" He took as deep a breath as he could, with ribs most likely broken and stabbing into his lungs. "Just give me a minute and I'll dig you out. We can find the tunnel back to the gate," he gasped. "Get help."
"You can't," Rodney said simply. "Can you even walk? I didn't think so," he went on before John could answer. "The ceiling fell on me. I don't even know how many metric tons of rock that is. If it wasn't for--right, sorry. I mean, I should be dead now. I will be soon."
"Shut up!" John hissed. "You--you're not--" Something shifted inside him, and suddenly he had nothing but blood in his mouth, he was drowning in it. He was distantly aware of Rodney calling his name, of their fingers intertwined; John holding Rodney's hand so tightly he might be breaking his fingers, Rodney letting him. When he finally coughed it was like a thunderbolt going through his chest. The world grayed out.
He woke to Rodney calling his name.
"M'here," he murmured, warmth of blood against his lips but the rest of him freezing cold.
"John! Please--please don't talk, okay?" Rodney said. He sounded weaker now, fading, but his voice was still strident, fiercely demanding John's attention. "Listen. Just listen."
John didn't have enough breath to answer, so he just squeezed Rodney's hand.
"Just--whatever happens, just…I love you," Rodney said. John could hear the labored wheeze of Rodney's breathing. "We both love you, so much. And maybe, maybe you won't forgive us for this, but, but it doesn't matter. We love you."
"Rodney." Concussion, John thought. That explained how Rodney was talking.
Rodney tightened his grip on John's hand. "Don't worry," he said softly. "I'm not…there won't be any pain for me. I'm sorry that it will hurt you, but it's the only way to save your life."
"Rodney," John hissed. "Stop--"
"I love you," Rodney said. "So long."
John heard Rodney's gentle exhale, like he was letting out the last of his life. His hand relaxed once and went still.
"No, Rodney," John said, breathless now with horror instead of pain. "No, Rodney! NO!"
He felt something touch his hand, warm and wet and oily, like a snake.
And then something hit like a pickaxe in the back of his neck, going in and in and in.
"You're not getting it," John said, for what had to be the fortieth time. "I'm not a prisoner. I volunteered. Why the hell do you think he's letting me do all the talking?" He strained against the restraints on reflex, wishing to hell that Mer'deth would just take over for a second and break them, but each time he moved his abdomen got a jolt of pain.
Stop doing that! Mer'deth hissed worriedly to him. Do you want them to shoot you again? I can't just keep healing you, you know!
John relaxed with a sigh, glowering at SG-1, who were all gathered around him in the Mountain's infirmary like he was some prize bull at a 4H club meeting. He could feel Mer'deth's exhaustion like an echo of the pain still gnawing at his guts. Mer'deth was working so hard to heal him that John was more than a little worried the Goa'uld would kill himself with the effort.
Daniel Jackson rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, looking frustrated. "I'm sure you understand it's a little difficult to believe you, considering a Goa'uld can use its host's voice."
"Besides," Cameron Mitchell put in, "I know Sheppard. There's no way in hell he'd volunteer to have a snake in his head!" He was sitting next to Daniel, straddling his own chair backwards with his forearms on the backrest and his chin on top of them. He looked relaxed and vaguely amused by this whole thing, which neatly disguised the tension John knew was roiling underneath.
"I still do not see why we cannot simply remove the Goa'uld, since we have the technology to do so," Teal'c said. He was standing against the wall, staring at John with typically Jaffa cool disdain.
"Because we need that ZPM," Sam Carter said to him. She and Cam had both moved up a rank since John had last seen them. She was still just as beautiful, though, even looking at him with the exact same expression as Teal'c. "It wasn't on your ship," she said to John, though he knew she thought she was speaking directly to Mer'deth. "So you've obviously hidden it somewhere, which was clever, considering you must know that we won't remove you from Colonel Sheppard until we get that information."
"Believe me, he wants to tell you," John said. Mer'deth had been clamoring so loudly about it that it was giving him a worse headache than he'd woken up with. John figured the only reason Mer'deth hadn't charged to the forefront already and blurted everything was that there'd be even less hope of convincing SG-1 that John was, well, John if his voice changed and his eyes started glowing. And unless he could convince them that he really did want Mer'deth in his head, the Goa'uld was toast.
John couldn't let that happen.
"I know how hard it is to believe that I'm me," John said, trying to sound exasperated and not actually afraid. He turned his head as much as he was able with the band around his neck to look at Cameron. "That I'm really the one talking and Mer'deth isn't just using my voice. But you got to believe me, here. I did fight, in the beginning. God, I fought so hard I think I would've killed us both. So--Mer let me go."
"Right," Cam scoffed. "And then you were so overcome by his generosity that you changed your mind." He shook his head. "Nope, not going to buy it."
"Goa'uld never let their hosts go," Daniel said, and the hard edge of pain behind his words froze John to the core.
"I believe that is the plot of Beauty and the Beast," Teal'c said.
"Yes it is," Daniel said. He was starting to sound angry now. Not good. "I'm sure if we wait long enough you'll give us the plot to The Wizard of Oz. He stood, coming so close to John that he loomed over him. "We're not interested in your games, Mer'deth. Where's the ZPM?"
"You're going to rip him out of my head!" John barked. "Why the hell should he tell you?"
"We have many ways of procuring this information," Teal'c said. He didn't have to come close to loom. "It would be better to simply tell us now."
"What, you're going to torture me?" John demanded, aghast.
"Believe me, we don't want to hurt your host," Sam said, looking apologetic but frighteningly resolute. "But that ZPM is vital for the defense of Earth."
They're going to torture you?" Mer'deth sounded even more horrified than John. Oh, no. No, no, no, no. I can't let them do that! What if they hurt you?"
"I think hurting me's kind of the point, Mer." John said out loud. SG-1 looked at him strangely, probably thinking this was some kind of ploy. "It doesn't matter," he went on quickly, "you can heal me, right? But that ZPM's the only leverage we have here!"
I know, John, Mer'deth said. But I don't care. I'm not going to let them hurt you!
John felt Mer'deth surging forward, and his whole body arched in the restraints as he fought him back, resisting in a way he hadn't since he'd willingly bared his chest to the Goa'uld two years before.
"What's happening?" Sam asked worriedly. Everyone was crowding around his bed, no clue what was going on.
"Listen to me!" John ground out, forcing the words between his teeth as he struggled to keep his body under his own control. "Mer'deth's brilliant, a genius. You need him. He can build…build you weapons, shields. Help you fight the Ori! You have--!"
John's words cut off on a cry. His body spasmed and then fell back to the bed as Mer'deth finally wrested control from him. For a second the world glowed orange as John looked out through what were now Mer'deth's eyes.
"I'll tell you where the ZPM is," Mer'deth said breathlessly with John's voice. "I'll give you the coordinates. Just--just don't hurt John. Please, don't hurt him. I'll tell you anything!"
"Well, that was easy," Cam drawled. He sounded almost disappointed.
There was no more pain.
John slept, or he thought he might have slept; it felt more like sleeping than anything else. (Dream of his body moving, like he was watching himself from somewhere distant, warm and safe.) All the pain was gone, cut off like it had never existed. As if the explosion, being wounded, Rodney's death had never happened.
He thought he might have gotten out of the ruins like that, if the ruins were real. He knew Kowalski and Rothman were dead because of the sorrow he felt (except that it wasn't his own, somehow, like he was looking at it through a window). Sometimes, though, he could feel Rodney's death, a sudden agony of loss, and the grief would be his and not only his, and it would build and build like a never-ending echo until John thought it would kill him and the pain of his injuries would come roaring back and he wanted it, wanted to die--and then it would be gone again, boxed up, and John would feel nothing except the warmth and the safety and the lack of pain and there would be a voice saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's all right. You're all right. You can sleep, John. And John would.
And then he was staring up at a bright blue sky, on ground that was fragrant and meadow-soft beneath him. He was out of the Ancient outpost, aboveground again. He didn't remember getting here. His legs felt mostly fine, but his abdomen and lungs still hurt like hell, like a wound that had only started to heal. It was so bad that for a long time all he could do was lay there, arms wrapped around his torso, trying to breathe through the pain.
Someone was talking to him.
I'm sorry. I didn't know you were that badly hurt. How could you have even been talking when you were that badly hurt? Don't you have any sense of self-preservation at all? I can't do any more. Not right now. I need to rest, or I'll die and then we'll both be screwed. And by 'screwed' I mean, more screwed than we are now. Because we won't be late for our check-in for another half-hour, and I'm not entirely certain either of us are going to make it until then. I should've healed your internal bleeding first. I know that. Bad call. But it was dark, and the ceiling had come down, and I think I might've picked up Rodney's claustrophobia because--
"Rodney? Rodney!" John tried to sit up, only to fall over onto his left side in the grass, curled around the flare of agony. He coughed and spat more blood, but he didn't know if it was his stomach or his lungs. I shouldn't be alive, he thought with numb certainty. But Rodney was there--John had heard him…"
Oh, no, oh no. It's not Rodney, John. I'm so sorry. Rodney's dead. Do you remember what happened? He…he died, John. I tried to save him, I really did, but he was so badly hurt, and you weren't trapped so you had a better chance, and we didn't--we couldn't leave you.
John closed his eyes against the merciless blue of the sky, feeling the tears roll down his face into the grass. Rodney was dead. He knew it as certainly as he did for the rest of his team, and the anguish of their deaths (oh God, Rodney) was his own and not his own. And Rodney had loved them both so much, and now he was gone--
John's heart staggered into pounding. The feeling of wrongness slid into his mind like a blade.
"Who are you," he demanded, spitting it out like the blood between his teeth.
Please, John! The voice--the voice that wasn't Rodney's, the voice that was in his head--sounded frightened, nearly frantic. Please, please calm down! You're going to make your injuries worse, and I can't help you!
"Who are you?" But John realized with another jolt of adrenaline and pain that he knew. He knew what this was; he knew.
I'm Mer'deth, the voice said.
And yeah, that was a Goa'uld name. John had become a host to a fucking Goa'uld.
John woke up with a headache so bad it felt like someone was prying off his skull.
There was nothing but black emptiness where the Goa'uld had been: vast and cold as the distance between the stars. It was like when Rodney had died, only worse. Then, John's pain had been mitigated by rage. His struggle for the sovereignty of his own body had been all-consuming, eclipsing grief and memory, even thought, until he was suddenly in a medical bed in a Tok'ra tunnel, and he was free and Mer'deth was gone.
After that, when Mer'deth was inside him again, his in a way John had never experienced with anyone before, their mourning was a shared thing, each using the broken parts of the other to make something mostly whole again. They had both loved Rodney; when they lost him they each had lost just as much. There was some comfort in that.
Eventually comfort had become a kind of love in its own right. John had stopped thinking of Mer'deth as a parasite long ago, but at some point he'd also stopped thinking of him as a passenger. Somewhere along the way, Mer'deth had become the other half of John's soul.
And now he was gone too.
John bit back the scream clawing at his throat, and it lodged there like a stone. He was so full of anguish and horror and rage that John thought he might die if it let it out. He clenched his jaw so tightly it immediately started aching. He couldn't help the tears, though. John swiped the water from his face, trying to control his breathing and waiting for the voice in his head that wouldn't come.
"Hey," someone said softly, and John's eyes snapped open. It was Mitchell, expression gentle and hopeful and satisfied, like he'd just saved John's life. "I know this is probably--"
John flung himself out of the bed and into Mitchell, knocking the chair over and bringing both of them down to the floor. His hands were around the Colonel's neck, and he grinned in vicious satisfaction at how loud the crack was when the back of Mitchell's head struck the concrete.
"Where is he?" John demanded, his voice low and growling. He wasn't crying anymore; the fury had taken care of that."Is he still alive?"
Mitchell was struggling to breathe, his hands prying uselessly at John's fingers. John had no doubt Mitchell was a better fighter than this, but he hadn't expected this attack and right now John had no problem with killing him and Mitchell knew it.
John lifted Mitchell's head just enough so he could crack it down again. "Is he still alive?" he snarled. "What did you do with him?"
Stupid--he'd been stupid. It hadn't even occurred to him that there would be other people in the Infirmary, or that they might call for help. He suddenly had two large men hauling back on his arms, lifting him bodily off the floor and away from Mitchell. John kicked and fought and bit and raged, but then Mitchell grabbed one of his flailing legs, and someone else took the other one, and the last thing John felt was his head being wrenched to the side, and someone plunging a hypodermic into his shoulder.
The dark that followed was just a new kind of emptiness, but part of John was grateful for it.
He snatched his gun out of the holster and lifted it to his head.
No!
John's hand jerked violently as the gun fired, sending the bullet streaking off into the sky. His arm swung away from his body, his finger convulsing over the trigger until the magazine was empty. The Goa'uld abruptly let him go, and John's arm dropped to the ground.
I'm not going to hurt you, John! Please listen to me!
It took three tries before John could get to his feet, and the blast of vertigo that came with it was almost enough to send him sprawling again. He forced his leaden legs to move, carrying him swaying and lurching towards the Gate.
He crashed into the DHD, and then had to wait a long time for the world to stop swimming. Hopefully not too long--he had to dial out before the SGC tried to dial in, or they'd know something had happened and they'd come to make sure his team was all right. John couldn't let them find him like this.
Mer'deth was screaming something like an audible migraine in the back of his head, trying to get John to stop, insisting that he was going to die like this, if he didn't rest and wait until Mer'deth could heal him. John just grinned, dripping blood on the DHD. He tried to wipe it away but only succeeded in smearing red. Maybe whoever came to find them wouldn't notice.
The snake was scared for his own oily skin, John knew, because if John died he would as well. John wanted to live, but he'd gladly kill himself if it was the only way of taking the Goa'uld with him.
He sure as hell wasn't going to bring him back to Earth.
I've been on Earth for five years! Mre'deth shouted, and wasn't that just a kick in John's already bloody teeth, because John had only met Rodney four years ago, which meant he'd never met Rodney at all.
It was all a lie: every argument, every smile, every shared beer or crazy story or sorrow or joy, or every secret, forbidden stroke and push and thrust of skin-to-skin. John hadn't been in love with Rodney; he'd been in love with whomever Mer'deth had wanted Rodney to be. And now Rodney was dead and John didn't even know who he was mourning. He hadn't ever known.
That's not true! Mer'deth was like a siren in John's brain. He was there! He was always there! He loved you--we both did! I still love you.
John gritted his teeth and hit the gate keys at random.
Wait. What--what are you doing? No! John was staggering towards the Gate, trying to throw himself into the wash of energy. Mer'deth grabbed control again, except the Goa'uld was almost as weak as John was and could only send him sprawling to the ground. The impact was like an explosion behind John's ribcage and he almost blacked out. He managed to hold onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth.
John yanked control of his body back, smiling grimly at Mer'deth's squawk of fright. John started crawling towards the Gate, then managed to heave himself to his feet. He all but fell through the event horizon.
The Gate spilled him out on a planet in winter, blizzard raging around him. John dropped to his knees forward into the snow, spattering drops of red. The cold was already stinging the skin of his cheeks, his fingertips, settling in.
He should've just dialed the SGC, he realized, thrown himself into the iris. John thought about doing that, but he was too weak and too cold to move again. It wasn't like this wouldn't do the trick anyway.
Don't do this, John, Mer'deth begged him. Please. Please don't do this. I can't--I'm too weak. I can't move you. Please get up! You're going to die!
"Yeah," John said, barely a whisper into the snow. "You and me both." He closed his eyes.
The snow floated down, not even that cold anymore. John waited.
On to Part Two
On to Part Three