Angst, Week 1: Pot Luck...or Not
Title: Pot Luck...or Not
Author: tridget
Genre: Angst with a fair bit of light humor, Hurt/Comfort, ShepWhump
Prompt See Author's Note at the end of the story
Word Count: 7,543
Rating: PG for occasional mild language
Warnings: Spoilers for "Sunday"
Summary: Following a run of missions-gone-bad, Colonel Sheppard attempts successful completion what should have been a simple assignment.
Notes: Thank you, trishkafibble, an avid fanfic reader who supports the writers with thoughtful journal comments and her invaluable skills as a beta reader.
Years of being on the run had taught Ronon much about survival -- and escape. Although Ronon appeared to be at ease, listening with interest to the conversation at the table, his mind was vigilant, ready for the right moment. He focused on maintaining a relaxed and steady rate of breathing as he waited patiently. He knew better than to signal his intent to make a move.
Ronon forced himself to remain calm as his pulse quickened. All eyes in the room had turned toward his teammate, Teyla, as she began her carefully worded address. It was the opportunity Ronon needed. Slowly and unobtrusively, he inched his right arm back across the table, sliding it down his side to his holster. His fingers extended carefully to seize his weapon in a firm grip.
As Ronon's fingertips brushed against the cool familiar metal, his mind was seized with images of the last time he had been in such a situation. It was less than two weeks since he had last been seated at the Atlantis conference table. Bored and restless, the ex-Runner had occupied his mind with various quick-draw scenarios. Immersed in the action within his mind, he'd leapt to his feet as he simultaneously drew his weapon. Sheppard and Teyla had been startled to say the least. With a shriek, Rodney had dived for cover under the table. But it was the look on the face of Dr. Elizabeth Weir that had spoken volumes about the folly of his action.
Determined not to repeat that moment of mortification, Ronon's arm jerked back from his weapon as though the gun were electrified, and slammed back down on the conference table.
Rodney yelped at the sudden movement but managed to reign in his impulse to scramble under the table again. Dr. Beckett froze, looking like he was torn between moving farther away to safety and moving closer to conduct a medical evaluation. Teyla paused in her exacting recitation of the lengthy trade agreement ceremony practiced by their new potential allies. She regarded Ronon with a mixture of concern and alarm. Dr. Weir massaged her temples briefly as though attempting to alleviate a headache
Ronon shrugged his shoulders with a forced nonchalance. Privately, he noted with chagrin that the tight look on Dr. Weir's face was only marginally less disapproving than it had been for his previous conference interruption.
Elizabeth turned toward Teyla with a nod, indicating that she should resume her presentation. With the attention once again focused on Teyla, John leaned toward his teammate with a grin and drawled under his breath "Gotta stop watchin' so many Westerns, pardner, or we'll be callin' ya Quick-Draw Dex." Ronon grinned back, but the glint in his eyes seemed more feral than amused.
John figured he might have gone a bit too far with his remark, but he tilted his head in a gesture that was more of a dismissive "oh, well" than an apology. No way was he apologizing, especially not since he'd had to endure a stern lecture from their CMO for his latest injury sustained while stick fighting with Ronon. Carson had said that if he had to put one more stitch in John as a result of their recreational sparring, he was going to ban John from stick fighting -- permanently. There was no doubt in John's mind that Carson would follow through.
John knew he had figured right about going too far when one of the Satedan warrior's feet shifted under the conference table. Placing his foot on top of John's, Ronon began to exert considerable pressure. John squirmed slightly and tried to ease his foot away, but Ronon just increased the pressure on John's instep to the point that it was becoming painful. John glared at Ronon. When Ronon pushed his foot down harder, John covered a small groan with an unfortunately fake-sounding cough. It earned him a brief irritated glance from Elizabeth.
John began to shift his weight slightly to one side. With his palms pressed against the table and his free foot steadying him on the floor John yanked his foot back just as Ronon released the pressure. The end result was that John appeared to push himself sideways off his chair and land sprawled on the floor.
"Are you alright, Colonel?" Carson scrambled to assist John. He pulled out his penlight.
John swatted the penlight away. "I landed on my butt, not my head."
"Aye, I know, lad." Carson's voice was patient. "But I thought you might still be a bit dizzy from the concussion last week and I just wanted to --."
"I'm not dizzy," John ground out as Carson grabbed one of his arms to help him up off the floor.
Ronon took hold of John's other arm and whispered in his ear as he helped him to his seat. "Gotta learn not to fall out of the saddle, pardner." The commotion around John concealed Ronon's brief laugh.
Elizabeth looked as though she didn't know whether to be concerned or annoyed by this latest interruption. John knew she had settled on the latter when her lips drew tight. "Colonel?" Her unwavering eye contact with John left no question that an explanation was required.
"I, uh, I fell off --." John's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I fell off my chair," he stated simply and flatly, hoping that would suffice as an explanation, but as soon as he said it he realized how utterly inane it sounded. He winced, lowering his head to concentrate on his hands lying clasped upon the table.
"Colonel, just two days ago you were discussing plans for new evasive maneuvers with the jumpers, maneuvers which Dr. McKay feels may cause some momentary decrease in the strength of the inertial dampers. You want to test those maneuvers personally yet you can't even remain seated in your chair in a conference room?"
Rodney snickered. John gave him a look that clearly said "screw you." The smile disappeared instantly from Rodney's face.
Feeling his own face color with embarrassment, John continued to stare down at the table and mumbled "sorry" vaguely in Elizabeth's direction.
Elizabeth sighed and massaged her temples again briefly. Turning back to Teyla, she asked her to continue outlining the concluding actions of the ceremony. With a pointed look around the table, Elizabeth added, "We will all refocus our attention on analyzing the potential value and safety risks of this mission."
Teyla serenely picked up her recitation as though the interruption had never occurred. "At that point, Colonel Sheppard and the Councilor of Trade will jointly announce the terms of the agreement. Members of their council and our Atlantean team will then take turns placing food upon the council table. The placement of food from both communities symbolizes and seals the new alliance. Then, in a feast of thanksgiving for new opportunities and new friends, the ceremonial meal is consumed."
Elizabeth held up her hand signaling Teyla to pause in her description of the ceremony. "I have some concern about participation in the concluding feast --."
"I believe the communal meal is highly similar to a custom you would call a 'pot luck dinner,'" Teyla clarified.
"Yes, I understand. However, this team has a rather poor recent track record with ceremonial dinners --."
"We do not have a poor track record with ceremonial dinners." John's voice rose a notch in defense of his team.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in a gesture that said she clearly begged to differ.
"Okay. We've had a couple of ...unfortunate incidents," John conceded.
"Colonel, 'unfortunate' barely begins to describe the events on P3X 769."
John scowled. "Was that the planet with those furry frog things?"
"Aye, I remember that," interjected Carson. Those wee beasties had sharp fangs. And when they bit, they seemed to want to go for your --."
Elizabeth cut him off. "Yes, Dr. Beckett, I have read the detailed mission reports on that incident." Her expression softened to one of slight bemusement as she tilted her head and muttered, "Quite frankly, in far more detail than I ever wanted to know."
"Aye, I suppose." Carson sounded rueful.
"However, I am referring to a different 'unfortunate incident,'" Elizabeth continued. "I am referring to the more recent one involving a drink with the ceremonial dinner."
Rodney snapped his fingers as if reawakening the memory. "Ah. That one. Fortunately, I avoided the drink. It had a faint citrus odor and with my allergies, I can never be too careful." Rodney looked quite pleased with himself for having avoided the refreshments. "I'm also fortunate to have a clear memory of the events. Although now that I think of it, the image of the rest of you dancing is not such a fortunate memory."
"Shut up, McKay," the Colonel snapped as he felt the color rise in his face again. "And for the record, I did not participate in the dance."
"That is true." Teyla's tone was placating but there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "You merely swayed in the sidelines."
Rodney jumped in again. "Yes, but after the dance --."
"Did I not just tell you to shut up?" John fervently wished he could erase the entire mission from Atlantis' data banks.
"Thank you all for illustrating my point so well." Elizabeth headed off further discussion of the fiasco. "I might also add that even having Dr. Beckett accompany you to analyze the food and to provide medical assistance did not improve the situation."
"It was a very unusual compound." Carson still struggled to come to terms with his medical failure on the mission.
Elizabeth turned towards Carson. "I understand you have been working on a new approach to the situation."
"Dr. McKay has been helping me adapt one of the Ancients' medical scanners," Carson began. "We think we now have a significantly improved ability to analyze potential food substances off world. Our test results indicate the new device is extremely accurate."
Rodney was unable to restrain himself from interjecting once again. "If you are looking for accuracy it would be more correct to say Carson helped me rather than I helped him. I mean, I did most of the work. I was the brains behind this piece of equipment. In fact, I wouldn't even say Carson helped me because --."
Indignant, Carson's brogue became a little stronger. "No, you would never say that because you're --."
"Gentlemen!" Elizabeth interrupted.
The meeting fell silent for a moment.
"Look," said John. "This ceremony only requires that I have to eat. Everyone else is welcome to eat, but I'm the only one that has to eat to complete the agreement."
"Now why do I not find that a reassuring piece of information?" Elizabeth queried. "I seem to remember dinner ingredients which had previously been in your stomach ending up on the gate room floor on two occasions."
"I don't know if you've noticed or not," Rodney added, "but if you look very closely at the floor about three meters in front of the gate, you can still see traces of the inky dye from those fried not-octopus things you insisted on eating."
"McKay!" John growled.
"I'm just saying that we might consider having a bucket in the gateroom when Colonel Taste Tester is on a mission."
John rose partway out of his seat, as though he might make a move to forcibly eject Rodney from the meeting.
"Okay. Okay. Shutting up now." Rodney pressed his lips together.
"We can do this." John sat down again. "The planet has several valuable resources and we cannot afford to pass up potential new allies. We'll take Carson and the analyzer along for safety and I'll be the only one who eats."
Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Alright, we'll proceed with the mission. Let's spend the remaining meeting time reviewing the details of the safety protocol."
John smiled. He was struck by the irony of advocating that his team be given exactly the type of mission he hated, but he was determined to repair this singular area of shortcoming in his team's reputation.
When the meeting mercifully broke up, Carson discreetly arranged to leave last along with Elizabeth. "I'll walk to the infirmary with you." He offered casually.
"The infirmary?" Elizabeth began. She sighed. "I could use a couple of Tylenol if you don't mind."
"And I'd like you to have a checkup if you don't mind," Carson chided gently. "That's the third headache this week."
"Carson, I don't need a checkup. Really," Elizabeth objected.
Carson kept quiet as they walked.
Finally, Elizabeth spoke again. "Is it just me or does everyone seem a bit 'off' to you?"
"It's not just you, lass. I think Dr. Heightmeyer is right. No one ever fully leaves their work here. They need some real downtime. I think Colonel Sheppard's team is nearly exhausted."
Elizabeth nodded. "Hopefully this mission will go well and --."
"Aye...hopefully," Carson said, but the expression on his face was doubtful.
"We'll also look over Kate's plan for a regular day of rest for all personnel."
Carson nodded. "I think that would be a very good idea."
The ceremonial activities were as boring as John might have imagined. Once again, he was struck by the irony of having insisted on this mission. He glanced around the room at his team.
Ronon looked as bored as John felt, but John was certain Ronon would never let his attention wander off world as it had in the conference room. Rodney groaned. "This ceremony is such a waste of time," he said almost a little too loudly, only to be shushed by Teyla. Teyla seemed fascinated by the proceedings. John wondered if it was a polite act or if she really was that interested. Carson checked the readouts on the analyzer incessantly.
John felt his team's eyes upon him as he took the first tentative taste of the meal. He nodded his head offering a compliment to the hostess. She smiled and dropped her head shyly as she went on to serve the Councilor. Once both men were served, the crowd began mingle and chat.
Carson reached John's side quickly and began inquiring about various symptoms.
"I'm fine, Carson." John waved his hand dismissively. "The food is delicious. It's pleasantly sweet," he added teasingly while looking at Rodney. Then he took several large bites of the food.
Rodney was envious. "Fine. Enjoy your meal. But I'll have the last laugh when you go into anaphylactic shock and drop dead."
"Yeah, but if I'm dead, I won't be around to see you having the last laugh, and all the fun will be taken away from your gloating." John grinned at Rodney.
Rodney sputtered for a moment. "Damn you," he said and stalked away to consume another power bar.
Teyla and Carson began to converse in earnest with the natives. Ronon continued to scan the room, on guard for any threat. John was left to make small talk with another councilor whose name and position he could not remember.
"So," said the councilor, "our food is to your liking."
"It's very good," John replied. "It's sweet." He took another mouthful of the meal.
"Excellent!" the councilor looked very pleased. "Many of our local crops have quite a bitter flavor, especially to off-worlders such as yourself. However, the rains this past year have made our blossom crop more bountiful than any for at least 10 solar cycles."
"So you use this blossom in your food to sweeten the taste?" Determined to do everything possible to make this mission a success, John tried to feign interest while secretly not caring a bit about their culinary activities.
"Oh, no." The councilor shook his head. "It is not in the food. The sweetness of the blossom evaporates too quickly when cooked and these root vegetables take a considerable amount of cooking to make them digestible. We have perfected a process of baking the blossom extract into our pottery, such as the bowl from which you eat. The clay preserves the sweetness and allows it to seep slowly into the cooked food." The councilor looked extremely proud of this bit of ingenuity.
John paused with a mouthful of food. "It's -- it's in the pottery?" He suddenly had difficulty swallowing. He looked around for a place to discreetly spit out the half-chewed food in his mouth, but found none. He gulped down the morsels quickly, feeling them stick uncomfortably in his esophagus.
"Yes. A wonderful discovery by one of our botanists," the councilor beamed. "Excuse me for a minute. I will see if I can find him for you. Perhaps you would like to hear more about his use of plants for various purposes."
John nodded and forced a smile on his face. Or perhaps not he thought to himself as the councilor moved away.
John took stock of himself. No nausea, no stomach pain, no tingling... He mentally reviewed the checklist that Carson had provided a short while ago. Relieved by his lack of symptoms, John decided he was fine...for now. He debated telling Carson about this latest development. If he did that, he thought, Carson would haul his ass back to Atlantis immediately. Whether or not he had been poisoned, his team's reputation for ceremonial dinners would hit rock bottom. Not a great option. If he didn't tell Carson about the dinnerware right away and he did become ill, the focus would be on finding a cure rather than the actual screw up -- provided he wasn't already dead. And what were the odds of the blossom being deadly? John chose to wait a bit and see what happened before raising the alarm. With a flutter of anxiety, he also decided he'd better obtain a sample of the plant in case Carson needed to develop an antidote.
John forced yet another smile onto his face as the eager botanist was introduced. Barely pausing for the greeting, the scientist launched into a lengthy discussion of the valuable uses he had discovered for many of the local plants. John seized the first opening in the conversation to ask for a sample of the blossom plant, offering visits by interested Atlantean scientists in return. The botanist happily supplied a specimen.
With the specimen tucked in a pouch and placed inside one of his pockets, John figured it was time to head back. The closer they were to the Atlantis infirmary if disaster struck, the better off he'd be. The thought made his heart race a little. John took stock of himself once again. He felt perfectly fine. Fine...except...it was a little bit too warm in the room. Sweat trickled down John's back, making his shirt feel damp and sticky. After a moment's thought, John dismissed his concern. The room was packed with people. The food was being kept warm over hot coals. Of course it would be hot. Still, his teammates didn't appear to be sweating...
John spotted the Councilor of Trade near the far wall. Rounding up his team, he headed over. He took the councilor's hand, shook it warmly and smiled. He'd come too far to blow the new alliance with an ill-chosen departing mark or gesture. "It's been great meeting with you, but we must head out now."
"So soon?" asked the councilor. "Many times we will feast for a full day or more."
"We'd love to stay, really, we would, but it is our custom not to overstay our welcome, especially on a first visit." John was relieved that the councilor did not appear to detect the false sincerity in his farewell. He ignored the curious looks from his teammates.
The team headed out of the village and began the hour-long winding trail through the forest to the gate.
"Are you still feeling alright?" Carson asked worriedly.
"I'm fine." Once again, John debated telling Carson about the stupid blossom pots, but the timing was all wrong now. It seemed entirely too late for an early warning, but still too early to identify a problem. Besides, it had been a long ceremony and John was too tired to be bothered dealing with Carson's response to the secret ingredient.
"Are you sure you're okay?" pressed Rodney. "You always say you're fine even when you're not."
John felt his anxiety rise another notch. "Why are you asking? Do I look as though there's something wrong?" He had attempted a light, bantering tone but it fell flat.
"You seemed a wee bit out of sorts at the dinner," Carson commented.
"In what way?" John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He vaguely entertained the idea that the blossoms were more like a drug than a poison. Maybe he had been affected by them already. Maybe he had failed to notice subtle alterations in his own behavior. Maybe he had a slight headache. He wasn't sure.
"You're not usually so...well... Usually you..." Carson searched for a diplomatic answer but failed.
Rodney, not seeing any need for tact, barged in. "You're not usually quite so pleasant at these ceremonies, especially the long, boring ones. In fact, you've been downright rude on --."
"Oh." John breathed a sigh of relief. "I just really wanted to make sure we came through this mission with flying colors, you know."
They did know.
The team trekked in silence for a while. John could feel Carson's eyes boring into him the whole time. It was unnerving. Then again, maybe he was becoming paranoid. Damn those friggin' dinners. He silently vowed he'd never ask to go on another ceremonial mission again. Never.
John became distracted by the sweating of his palms. He was about to ask the others if they were finding it uncomfortably warm in the forest, but decided against it. Carson would probably want to stop and conduct a full medical evaluation on the spot. Instead, John resorted to frequently and furtively wiping his sweat-slicked palms on his uniform.
In contrast to his hands, John noted that his mouth was becoming rather dry. He swigged on his canteen. Feeling as though he were under a microscope, John tried to do it surreptitiously. Preoccupied with his efforts to conceal the activity, he ended up fumbling with the canteen, spilling water on his shirt. John sighed. Perhaps he could use the water to explain why his shirt was now plastered to his chest, rather than admit it was soaked with perspiration. He ignored Teyla's questioning look.
Despite drinking the water, John could still feel a lump in his throat. It was a bit hard to swallow. In fact, from the moment he'd heard about the pottery he'd had difficulty swallowing. He was sure his stomach had seized up and refused to digest any more food after that bit of news. The undigested meal seemed to be making his stomach ache a bit.
As the walk to the gate progressed, John found that he couldn't stop mentally reviewing Carson's warning symptom checklist. It played over and over like a song stuck in his head. On his tenth pass through the list, John realized his heart rate was starting to climb. His breathing was feeling a bit tight, too. Maybe it was because he'd been walking in a humid forest for over half an hour. Then again, if Rodney had also been uncomfortable, he'd have already complained vigorously. It must be just him. Without thinking, John rubbed his hand across his chest, trying to alleviate the feeling of pressure.
Carson noticed the gesture. "Are you alright, lad?"
"Would you quit bugging me?" John snapped.
Carson looked momentarily offended, but then frowned in concern.
"He doesn't look good," Rodney chimed in as he peered at John. "He looks pale and sweaty. Oh, my God. Maybe he's having a heart attack."
"Thank you, Dr. McKay." Carson pointedly emphasized the word "doctor." "I'm quite capable of conducting my own medical evaluations." He turned to John. "Colonel, I want you to sit down for a minute, so I can have a look at you."
"We've only been walking half an hour and we've only got another half hour to go. We can manage the rest of the way without a break."
Carson scowled as John strode on without heeding his request. He considered whether or not to use his authority as CMO.
"I could stun him if he doesn't stop," Ronon offered, a little too gleeful at the prospect of getting to pull his weapon on his team leader.
"No!" Carson looked horrified. "You will not be stunning any member of this team."
Shrugging, Ronon let his fingers fall away from his holster. "Too bad. Let me know if you change your mind."
Ten minutes later, John declared a short break, claiming he needed to tie his boot laces.
"They're always undone," Rodney noted. "Why start tying them now?"
"This mission is going really well so far. I'm afraid of jinxing it with unsafe laces." John avoided looking at Rodney as he delivered the lame excuse. The truth was, his stomach was really hurting now. Tying his laces gave him an excuse to hunch over in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort for a bit.
"Colonel..." Teyla began gently.
"Teyla, not you too. Let's just get on with this." John's head swam a little as he stood up. He hoped it was because he'd stood up too fast.
About five minutes from the gate, John's vision started to gray around the edges. The forest seemed to tilt and waver under his feet. The ache in his stomach turned into a vicious cramp. John staggered and fell to his knees with a groan.
"Sheppard!" Ronon dropped to one knee beside John. Grabbing one of his arms, Ronon steadied John, preventing him from falling face-first into the ground as he doubled over.
"Bloody hell!" Carson swore as he knelt down in front of John. He grabbed John's wrist to check his pulse.
Rodney backed up a few feet. "I hope this isn't contagious... He's not dying, is he, Carson?... Colonel, I'm sorry I said I'd have the last laugh if you died."
"Rodney, Dr. Beckett will take good care of the Colonel. You must try to remain calm," Teyla soothed as she hovered near John.
"John...? John...?" Carson tried to get the man's attention.
John kept his head bent forward, partly to avoid looking at Carson and partly to avoid passing out.
"Colonel!" Carson called out, his tone sharper.
John's head snapped up abruptly. He swayed a little as his vision began to gray again. Grabbing John's other arm, Carson helped Ronon ease him down to a sitting position against a tree trunk.
"Ronon, run ahead. Dial the gate," Carson directed. "Radio me when the channel to Atlantis is open. I'll need a medical team on standby."
Ronon took off swiftly as Teyla moved into his spot, crouching at the Colonel's side.
"Oh, great. That leaves me to stand guard." Rodney's voice was tremulous.
Carson turned back to John. "Colonel, I don't think you're feeling too well right now. I'm going to help you, but I need you to be honest with me for once." A tinge of exasperation had crept into the doctor's voice.
His breath coming in rapid gasps, John debated what to say now. In retrospect, his decision to wait and see what happened seemed especially foolish. He groaned and curled forward, wrapping one arm around his stomach as another cramp seized him.
"I'll take it then that your stomach hurts." Carson's voice was tight.
John nodded without lifting his head. He began to think that he might end up dead on this planet because of the flowers and his own stupidity...mostly his own stupidity.
"Ummm." John rummaged around in his pockets, trying to locate the sample.
"What are you doing?" Carson asked.
John located the specimen. Pulling it out, he offered the sample to Carson. "Here." John hoped that was enough explanation because it was becoming seriously difficult to get enough air to talk.
Carson noticed. "Colonel, you need to try to slow down your breathing."
"I'm trying," John gasped, feeling more panicked and lightheaded with each passing second.
"You know, the air here is a little thin." Rodney's voice rose in pitch.
"I do not believe we are in any immediate danger, Rodney. Perhaps you could sit down and rest," Teyla suggested.
Rodney sat down heavily.
Teyla continued to crouch beside John, rubbing his back lightly until his breathing eased enough to allow him to talk.
"Care to tell me what this is?" Carson held up the flower specimen.
"Chef's secret ingredient." John gave a wry chuckle then gasped as his chest tightened again. He focused on slow, deep breaths. "Not on your list...of foods... to be analyzed. It's baked...into the pottery."
"And you waited until now to tell me?" Carson ran one hand through his hair. "Rodney..." Carson held out the sample.
Relieved at being given something to do, Rodney scrambled over, snatched the sample and frantically began analyzing it with the new gadget.
Just then, Ronon's voice could be heard over the radio telling Carson the wormhole was now open. Carson tapped his earpiece and began issuing instructions to his medical team.
John, having confessed his secret and brought his breathing under control, felt marginally better. "I can make it to the gate."
Carson and Teyla steadied John as he stood shakily, while Rodney continued to scan and analyze the specimen. The four of them resumed the walk to the gate.
As they drew closer to the gate, John bit his lip, stifling a moan as he was hit by another wave of pain in his stomach. If Carson and Teyla hadn't had a firm grip on his arms, he would have fallen again as he doubled over.
Rodney tucked the specimen pouch into one of his pockets, having completed his scan. "I hope this pouch is properly sealed," he muttered as he continued to work on the data analysis.
Carson and Teyla continued to hang onto John, waiting until his pain abated.
"Th--thanks," John mumbled when the spasm eased up enough to let him resume walking. "I'm sorry," he added softly.
Carson sighed. "Aye, I know you are. Let's just concentrate on getting you back to the infirmary now."
As they approached the gate John held up one hand. "Wait...Need a minute...'fore heading through." He pulled free from Teyla and Carson's grasp and wandered away a few yards to rest standing against a tree.
"Are you completely daft?" asked Carson, walking towards John. "What do you think you're doing now?"
"Don't feel very good." John's voice was almost a whisper.
Carson took hold of one of John's arms again. "I'm well aware of that, son. But the sooner you get back to Atlantis, the sooner I can do something to help you." Carson paused for a moment to give further instructions to the medical team.
"And as I said in the meeting," Rodney reminded Carson, "a bucket would be a good idea."
Carson gave Rodney a withering look as he pulled gently on John's arm, trying to lead him back to the gate. "Come on. Let's go."
John pulled away again.
"I hate to remind you, Colonel, but time may be a critical factor here."
"I know...I know...." John hung his head miserably. "But just this once...I'd rather throw up on this side of the gate." Listening to himself, John thought it was the most pathetic request he'd ever made.
Carson sighed and tapped his earpiece again. "...And we'll need a bucket."
Pathetic request notwithstanding, Carson hauled John through the gate within a minute. The trip through the wormhole did nothing to alleviate John's nausea. Rodney had unfortunately been right about the need for the bucket. John knelt on the floor with the bucket as Carson steadied him.
Elizabeth looked grim. "What happened this time?" she demanded.
As the medical team rushed into place with a stretcher, John lifted his head momentarily and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Chef's secret ingredient," he quipped hoarsely.
"That answer wasn't funny on the planet and it's not funny now," Rodney groused.
Assisted by the medical team, Carson grabbed John and deposited him on the gurney. "Bloody idiot neglected to inform me about an additional ingredient in the dishes."
"Literally in the dishes," added Rodney.
"S--sorry." John mumbled. He groaned and twisted around, trying to curl up on his side.
"I'll call you as soon as we know what's going on," Carson called over his shoulder to Elizabeth as they wheeled John out of the gateroom.
The next twenty-four hours were among the worst John could remember.
Carson was conservative in the use of medication, worrying that it would interact in some way with the as-yet-unidentified chemicals from the blossom. At first, John wondered if Carson were withholding medication to punish him for being so stupid. He revised that idea when Carson sat with him through the night, bringing hot water bottles to ease the painful cramps in his stomach, wiping away the sweat on his brow with cool cloths and uttering not a word of complaint when John threw up on his shoes.
Rodney visited several times, chattering incessantly. It might have been annoying, except it distracted John from the otherwise unrelenting nausea.
Hours later, when nothing Carson could give him would control the dry heaving, Teyla held John, rubbing his back to quell the spasms wracking his body.
Ronon offered to head back to the planet and shoot the chefs.
Exhausted, John finally slept through most of the next day.
Late in the evening when John awoke, Carson was at his side again, elevating the head of the bed and offering him sips of cool water. "How are you feeling now...honestly?"
John thought for a minute. His head felt a bit fuzzy, making it difficult to find the answer to the question...or maybe he just wasn't used to answering Carson with anything other than "I'm fine."
"T--tired. Achy."
"You've had a rough time." Carson patted John's shoulder. "But you're going to be fine now."
John frowned, thinking. The events of the last day or so filtered slowly back into his awareness. "You found...an antidote?"
Carson hesitated. "No, you didn't need one."
John nodded. "That's good. Effects wore off?"
Carson finished up his brief examination of John. "You still need to rest, Colonel. We'll talk more about it later."
"Now 'd be good. I'm still awake." John's drooping eyelids suggested he wouldn't be awake for long.
Carson straightened John's blankets, preparing to settle him down for the night. "Later. Get some more sleep and then we'll talk."
"No. Now." John forced his eyes open and pushed himself up to a sitting position.
Carson sighed and pulled up a chair, knowing John wouldn't rest until his questions had been answered. He picked up John's medical chart and sat down as he glanced over the latest results. "Well then, we need to have a wee chat."
"A chat?" John was immediately wary.
"Aye." Carson paused as though planning his words carefully. "The lab results indicate the plant extract may have acted as an irritant in your stomach -- a very mild irritant. The presence of the ATA gene might have intensified the effect a wee bit. But, other than that...." Trailing off awkwardly, Carson closed John's medical file. "We're still running some tests...."
"So that's what made me sick?"
"That's part of it."
"What's the other part?" John demanded.
Carson hesitated again. "Stress and exhaustion can have a number of physical manifestations...."
John stared at Carson for a long moment. "Oh, crap." He closed his eyes and dropped back onto the pillow. John pondered Carson's statement for bit. "You're sure?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"I'm sure." Carson's reply was soft.
"Doc, I'm not...I mean, I'm supposed to...I can handle..." Sighing, John lifted one arm and flung it across his eyes. "Crap," he muttered again.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, lad."
"Yeah?" John's arm remained across his face. "I think I'd rather have contracted some sort of alien STD."
Carson struggled to find an appropriately supportive response to that.
John took a deep breath. "Ow!" He groaned and curled up on his side, his back to Carson. "If it's all in my head, why does it still hurt so much?"
"A minute ago you told me you were "achy" now you're telling me you're actually still in pain? Which is it, then?" Carson's tone became a little sharper.
"It hurts." John hated the way his answer came out sounding like a petulant child.
"Let me have a look." Carson stood up to examine John again.
John curled up tighter. "Never mind."
"John..."
"No."
"You likely have pulled or torn muscles from throwing up all day."
"At least that's not in my head," John muttered darkly.
"I never said it was all in your head. I said that stress and exhaustion can take their toll on the body. That's not the same thing. I think you know that."
"I'm tired. I want go back to sleep."
"More sleep would be good for you right now," Carson agreed.
"I want to sleep in my own room."
"Sorry." Carson's tone was placating. "You'll sleep here tonight. We'll see about letting you back to your own room in a day or two. We can talk some more about it tomorrow."
"Well, I'm done talking. I think we've about covered everything. And since there's nothing wrong with me, I don't need to stay here." John pushed himself up from the pillow and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"Colonel, you're not--."
"I'll check back in tomorrow if I have to." John placed his feet on the floor and stood up.
"Colonel!" Carson lunged across the bed and grabbed John as his legs buckled.
"Oh, crap." John's voice was as unsteady as his legs.
"My thought exactly." Carson helped maneuver John back onto the bed.
John heard Carson mutter something to one of the nurses. Moments later he felt the sharp tip of a needle pierce his skin. He started to drift away as Carson replaced the blankets he'd tossed aside. Burrowing under, John pulled one of the blankets nearly up to his eyes.
Carson spoke gently. "John, you made a poor decision to withhold information from me on our last mission and you are physically ill. The stress of the Pegasus Galaxy is taking its toll on you too, whether or not you acknowledge it. In the last ten minutes, you've underreported your symptoms to me, avoided discussing the issue, refused part of an examination and made an attempt to oppose my medical instructions. If you want to get well, you're going to need a better approach than that." Carson patted John's arm. "Give it some thought, lad."
There was a long pause. "I know." John's voice was muffled under the blanket and slurred by the drugs. "I get it...I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too, son."
"For what?" John's question was slow in coming.
"For not saying something sooner, for letting you go on that last mission...." Carson's voice was tinged with guilt.
"S'okay." John drifted off to sleep.
John could hear the sounds of his teammate's voices drifting from Carson's office. He couldn't hear their actual words though, which was a good thing as far as John was concerned. At least he'd be spared the embarrassment of hearing their reactions to his plight. Earlier that morning, Carson had tried to insist that John be the one to speak with them, but John had argued that it was only going to be one more source of stress for him. It was true in a way, but he felt bad for having used such a cheap shot.
John hoped their meeting would last a really long time. Despite convincing Carson to break the news, he didn't know what he was going to say to his team. Where the hell is the "no visitors" sign when you need one, John wondered. He knew that was pretty harsh -- too harsh really -- especially since it was his team who had held him together the night before last. But that was when everyone had thought he was really sick. Tiredly, he scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
John sighed and cracked his eyes open, only to be startled by the presence of his teammates at his bedside. Maybe he'd actually slept again. He couldn't really have been that tired, could he?
Teyla was the first to speak. "Hello, John. It is good to see you," she smiled warmly.
Trust Teyla to avoid the 'how are you feeling' question, John thought. He felt his heart clench a little with a rush of appreciation for her understanding. "Hi." He smiled back.
"So, how long are they going to let you lie around in bed?" Rodney cut straight to the point. John knew Rodney hadn't even thought to ask "how are you?" and he was relieved by that.
Teyla looked at Rodney, slightly aghast despite being used to his blunt approach.
"What? I'm just asking. Every time I come down here with a stress induced pain or illness, I get kicked back out within the hour, two hours on a good day. It's been almost two days since we got back from the mission. It's not fair."
"Rodney --." Teyla's voice held a note of warning.
"Okay. New topic. What I really wanted to say was, I've dealt with this kind of thing all my life and I'm still perfectly fine." Rodney looked smug.
John almost laughed out loud.
Ronon narrowed his eyes, studying Rodney. "Depends on what you mean by 'fine.'"
"Aw, Ronon, lay off him for a bit," John defended Rodney.
Ronon turned back to John. "We had a cure for this on Sateda," he offered.
John was curious. "What was the cure?"
"You had to ask, didn't you?" Rodney griped.
"Do you wanna hear it or not?" Ronon looked slightly menacing.
"We would love to hear about your memories of Sateda." Teyla spoke with sincerity.
Ronon was mollified enough to begin his recollection. "We'd get a small group of friends together and head out to the woods with all the Satedan ale we could carry."
"For how long?" asked Rodney.
"Until we'd drunk all the ale and sobered up again."
"Which was how long?" Rodney pressed.
"Don't know." Ronon shrugged. "No one kept track of time on a warrior's retreat. Maybe five days."
"That's it? You'd lie around sloshed for five days and be cured?" Rodney laughed skeptically.
"Never said anything 'bout lyin' around."
"What'd you do then?" John asked.
"Stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Yeah. Stuff. Like target practice."
"Wait a minute." Rodney could not contain himself. You practiced shooting while on a Satedan bender?"
"Never heard of a bender." Ronon scowled.
"So you practiced shooting --," John prompted.
Ronon shrugged again. "Pretty simple, really. If you could still shoot straight on the third day of the retreat, you could shoot straight anytime, and you were good to go again as soon as you sobered up."
John did laugh out loud this time. "I think I should have been a Satedan."
"Don't know about that." Ronon was suddenly grim. "Almost all the Satedans are dead.... Must be another way."
"Must be," John conceded quietly.
Elizabeth stopped by the next afternoon. "How are you doing, John?"
"Better, I think," John said, and meant it. "Carson's going to release me after dinner."
"That's good." Elizabeth ran her hand lightly along the bed rail. There was a long pause. "I'm not good at this bedside thing," Elizabeth said apologetically.
"I know. It's okay. I'm not so good at the patient thing."
"So I hear."
John dropped his head, looking sheepish.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean --," Elizabeth apologized.
"It's okay."
An awkward silence reigned.
"The pressures of the Pegasus Galaxy are enormous -- for everyone --," Elizabeth started.
"Elizabeth, it's okay. I get it now. I'm going to learn how to handle it."
"Are you?" Elizabeth's tone was light but her eyes were serious.
"I spoke to Dr. Heightmeyer earlier this afternoon."
"That's good." Elizabeth brightened. "It was helpful then?"
"We agreed I should golf more often."
Elizabeth's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Golf?"
"Yeah," John smiled. "That wasn't what I expected."
"Me neither. But then, it's often hard to know what to expect out here."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Me neither." Elizabeth smiled back. "I've been reviewing our situation with Dr. Heightmeyer and Dr. Beckett. I think your last mission was a wake-up call for me, too. I'm taking their advice. I'll be arranging a day of rest for all Atlantis personnel."
"Snatching victory from the jaws of defeat?" John gave a wry grin.
"Not at all." Elizabeth replied. "Despite what you may think, John, the mission was considered a success. We have new allies, we have a new trading partner and now, we'll have a day of rest on Sunday."
"Sunday sounds like the perfect day to golf." John realized he suddenly felt more rested and content than he had in a long time. "I guess the pot luck dinner mission was luckier than I thought."
Or not...
Author's Note: The prompt for this story was "boat" or "raft." "So where's the boat?" you might wonder. It's there...or rather it was there. The idea that came to mind when I thought of a boat, was Carson out fishing on the mainland in a small inlet or lake. I pictured him fishing in a small boat maybe crafted by the Athosians. I figured that was where he was headed in the episode "Sunday." With that in mind, I launched into the story. The story was developed and edited. When it was done, the boat was no longer there. But then again, Carson never did get to the boat...
Author: tridget
Genre: Angst with a fair bit of light humor, Hurt/Comfort, ShepWhump
Prompt See Author's Note at the end of the story
Word Count: 7,543
Rating: PG for occasional mild language
Warnings: Spoilers for "Sunday"
Summary: Following a run of missions-gone-bad, Colonel Sheppard attempts successful completion what should have been a simple assignment.
Notes: Thank you, trishkafibble, an avid fanfic reader who supports the writers with thoughtful journal comments and her invaluable skills as a beta reader.
Years of being on the run had taught Ronon much about survival -- and escape. Although Ronon appeared to be at ease, listening with interest to the conversation at the table, his mind was vigilant, ready for the right moment. He focused on maintaining a relaxed and steady rate of breathing as he waited patiently. He knew better than to signal his intent to make a move.
Ronon forced himself to remain calm as his pulse quickened. All eyes in the room had turned toward his teammate, Teyla, as she began her carefully worded address. It was the opportunity Ronon needed. Slowly and unobtrusively, he inched his right arm back across the table, sliding it down his side to his holster. His fingers extended carefully to seize his weapon in a firm grip.
As Ronon's fingertips brushed against the cool familiar metal, his mind was seized with images of the last time he had been in such a situation. It was less than two weeks since he had last been seated at the Atlantis conference table. Bored and restless, the ex-Runner had occupied his mind with various quick-draw scenarios. Immersed in the action within his mind, he'd leapt to his feet as he simultaneously drew his weapon. Sheppard and Teyla had been startled to say the least. With a shriek, Rodney had dived for cover under the table. But it was the look on the face of Dr. Elizabeth Weir that had spoken volumes about the folly of his action.
Determined not to repeat that moment of mortification, Ronon's arm jerked back from his weapon as though the gun were electrified, and slammed back down on the conference table.
Rodney yelped at the sudden movement but managed to reign in his impulse to scramble under the table again. Dr. Beckett froze, looking like he was torn between moving farther away to safety and moving closer to conduct a medical evaluation. Teyla paused in her exacting recitation of the lengthy trade agreement ceremony practiced by their new potential allies. She regarded Ronon with a mixture of concern and alarm. Dr. Weir massaged her temples briefly as though attempting to alleviate a headache
Ronon shrugged his shoulders with a forced nonchalance. Privately, he noted with chagrin that the tight look on Dr. Weir's face was only marginally less disapproving than it had been for his previous conference interruption.
Elizabeth turned toward Teyla with a nod, indicating that she should resume her presentation. With the attention once again focused on Teyla, John leaned toward his teammate with a grin and drawled under his breath "Gotta stop watchin' so many Westerns, pardner, or we'll be callin' ya Quick-Draw Dex." Ronon grinned back, but the glint in his eyes seemed more feral than amused.
John figured he might have gone a bit too far with his remark, but he tilted his head in a gesture that was more of a dismissive "oh, well" than an apology. No way was he apologizing, especially not since he'd had to endure a stern lecture from their CMO for his latest injury sustained while stick fighting with Ronon. Carson had said that if he had to put one more stitch in John as a result of their recreational sparring, he was going to ban John from stick fighting -- permanently. There was no doubt in John's mind that Carson would follow through.
John knew he had figured right about going too far when one of the Satedan warrior's feet shifted under the conference table. Placing his foot on top of John's, Ronon began to exert considerable pressure. John squirmed slightly and tried to ease his foot away, but Ronon just increased the pressure on John's instep to the point that it was becoming painful. John glared at Ronon. When Ronon pushed his foot down harder, John covered a small groan with an unfortunately fake-sounding cough. It earned him a brief irritated glance from Elizabeth.
John began to shift his weight slightly to one side. With his palms pressed against the table and his free foot steadying him on the floor John yanked his foot back just as Ronon released the pressure. The end result was that John appeared to push himself sideways off his chair and land sprawled on the floor.
"Are you alright, Colonel?" Carson scrambled to assist John. He pulled out his penlight.
John swatted the penlight away. "I landed on my butt, not my head."
"Aye, I know, lad." Carson's voice was patient. "But I thought you might still be a bit dizzy from the concussion last week and I just wanted to --."
"I'm not dizzy," John ground out as Carson grabbed one of his arms to help him up off the floor.
Ronon took hold of John's other arm and whispered in his ear as he helped him to his seat. "Gotta learn not to fall out of the saddle, pardner." The commotion around John concealed Ronon's brief laugh.
Elizabeth looked as though she didn't know whether to be concerned or annoyed by this latest interruption. John knew she had settled on the latter when her lips drew tight. "Colonel?" Her unwavering eye contact with John left no question that an explanation was required.
"I, uh, I fell off --." John's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I fell off my chair," he stated simply and flatly, hoping that would suffice as an explanation, but as soon as he said it he realized how utterly inane it sounded. He winced, lowering his head to concentrate on his hands lying clasped upon the table.
"Colonel, just two days ago you were discussing plans for new evasive maneuvers with the jumpers, maneuvers which Dr. McKay feels may cause some momentary decrease in the strength of the inertial dampers. You want to test those maneuvers personally yet you can't even remain seated in your chair in a conference room?"
Rodney snickered. John gave him a look that clearly said "screw you." The smile disappeared instantly from Rodney's face.
Feeling his own face color with embarrassment, John continued to stare down at the table and mumbled "sorry" vaguely in Elizabeth's direction.
Elizabeth sighed and massaged her temples again briefly. Turning back to Teyla, she asked her to continue outlining the concluding actions of the ceremony. With a pointed look around the table, Elizabeth added, "We will all refocus our attention on analyzing the potential value and safety risks of this mission."
Teyla serenely picked up her recitation as though the interruption had never occurred. "At that point, Colonel Sheppard and the Councilor of Trade will jointly announce the terms of the agreement. Members of their council and our Atlantean team will then take turns placing food upon the council table. The placement of food from both communities symbolizes and seals the new alliance. Then, in a feast of thanksgiving for new opportunities and new friends, the ceremonial meal is consumed."
Elizabeth held up her hand signaling Teyla to pause in her description of the ceremony. "I have some concern about participation in the concluding feast --."
"I believe the communal meal is highly similar to a custom you would call a 'pot luck dinner,'" Teyla clarified.
"Yes, I understand. However, this team has a rather poor recent track record with ceremonial dinners --."
"We do not have a poor track record with ceremonial dinners." John's voice rose a notch in defense of his team.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in a gesture that said she clearly begged to differ.
"Okay. We've had a couple of ...unfortunate incidents," John conceded.
"Colonel, 'unfortunate' barely begins to describe the events on P3X 769."
John scowled. "Was that the planet with those furry frog things?"
"Aye, I remember that," interjected Carson. Those wee beasties had sharp fangs. And when they bit, they seemed to want to go for your --."
Elizabeth cut him off. "Yes, Dr. Beckett, I have read the detailed mission reports on that incident." Her expression softened to one of slight bemusement as she tilted her head and muttered, "Quite frankly, in far more detail than I ever wanted to know."
"Aye, I suppose." Carson sounded rueful.
"However, I am referring to a different 'unfortunate incident,'" Elizabeth continued. "I am referring to the more recent one involving a drink with the ceremonial dinner."
Rodney snapped his fingers as if reawakening the memory. "Ah. That one. Fortunately, I avoided the drink. It had a faint citrus odor and with my allergies, I can never be too careful." Rodney looked quite pleased with himself for having avoided the refreshments. "I'm also fortunate to have a clear memory of the events. Although now that I think of it, the image of the rest of you dancing is not such a fortunate memory."
"Shut up, McKay," the Colonel snapped as he felt the color rise in his face again. "And for the record, I did not participate in the dance."
"That is true." Teyla's tone was placating but there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "You merely swayed in the sidelines."
Rodney jumped in again. "Yes, but after the dance --."
"Did I not just tell you to shut up?" John fervently wished he could erase the entire mission from Atlantis' data banks.
"Thank you all for illustrating my point so well." Elizabeth headed off further discussion of the fiasco. "I might also add that even having Dr. Beckett accompany you to analyze the food and to provide medical assistance did not improve the situation."
"It was a very unusual compound." Carson still struggled to come to terms with his medical failure on the mission.
Elizabeth turned towards Carson. "I understand you have been working on a new approach to the situation."
"Dr. McKay has been helping me adapt one of the Ancients' medical scanners," Carson began. "We think we now have a significantly improved ability to analyze potential food substances off world. Our test results indicate the new device is extremely accurate."
Rodney was unable to restrain himself from interjecting once again. "If you are looking for accuracy it would be more correct to say Carson helped me rather than I helped him. I mean, I did most of the work. I was the brains behind this piece of equipment. In fact, I wouldn't even say Carson helped me because --."
Indignant, Carson's brogue became a little stronger. "No, you would never say that because you're --."
"Gentlemen!" Elizabeth interrupted.
The meeting fell silent for a moment.
"Look," said John. "This ceremony only requires that I have to eat. Everyone else is welcome to eat, but I'm the only one that has to eat to complete the agreement."
"Now why do I not find that a reassuring piece of information?" Elizabeth queried. "I seem to remember dinner ingredients which had previously been in your stomach ending up on the gate room floor on two occasions."
"I don't know if you've noticed or not," Rodney added, "but if you look very closely at the floor about three meters in front of the gate, you can still see traces of the inky dye from those fried not-octopus things you insisted on eating."
"McKay!" John growled.
"I'm just saying that we might consider having a bucket in the gateroom when Colonel Taste Tester is on a mission."
John rose partway out of his seat, as though he might make a move to forcibly eject Rodney from the meeting.
"Okay. Okay. Shutting up now." Rodney pressed his lips together.
"We can do this." John sat down again. "The planet has several valuable resources and we cannot afford to pass up potential new allies. We'll take Carson and the analyzer along for safety and I'll be the only one who eats."
Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Alright, we'll proceed with the mission. Let's spend the remaining meeting time reviewing the details of the safety protocol."
John smiled. He was struck by the irony of advocating that his team be given exactly the type of mission he hated, but he was determined to repair this singular area of shortcoming in his team's reputation.
When the meeting mercifully broke up, Carson discreetly arranged to leave last along with Elizabeth. "I'll walk to the infirmary with you." He offered casually.
"The infirmary?" Elizabeth began. She sighed. "I could use a couple of Tylenol if you don't mind."
"And I'd like you to have a checkup if you don't mind," Carson chided gently. "That's the third headache this week."
"Carson, I don't need a checkup. Really," Elizabeth objected.
Carson kept quiet as they walked.
Finally, Elizabeth spoke again. "Is it just me or does everyone seem a bit 'off' to you?"
"It's not just you, lass. I think Dr. Heightmeyer is right. No one ever fully leaves their work here. They need some real downtime. I think Colonel Sheppard's team is nearly exhausted."
Elizabeth nodded. "Hopefully this mission will go well and --."
"Aye...hopefully," Carson said, but the expression on his face was doubtful.
"We'll also look over Kate's plan for a regular day of rest for all personnel."
Carson nodded. "I think that would be a very good idea."
The ceremonial activities were as boring as John might have imagined. Once again, he was struck by the irony of having insisted on this mission. He glanced around the room at his team.
Ronon looked as bored as John felt, but John was certain Ronon would never let his attention wander off world as it had in the conference room. Rodney groaned. "This ceremony is such a waste of time," he said almost a little too loudly, only to be shushed by Teyla. Teyla seemed fascinated by the proceedings. John wondered if it was a polite act or if she really was that interested. Carson checked the readouts on the analyzer incessantly.
John felt his team's eyes upon him as he took the first tentative taste of the meal. He nodded his head offering a compliment to the hostess. She smiled and dropped her head shyly as she went on to serve the Councilor. Once both men were served, the crowd began mingle and chat.
Carson reached John's side quickly and began inquiring about various symptoms.
"I'm fine, Carson." John waved his hand dismissively. "The food is delicious. It's pleasantly sweet," he added teasingly while looking at Rodney. Then he took several large bites of the food.
Rodney was envious. "Fine. Enjoy your meal. But I'll have the last laugh when you go into anaphylactic shock and drop dead."
"Yeah, but if I'm dead, I won't be around to see you having the last laugh, and all the fun will be taken away from your gloating." John grinned at Rodney.
Rodney sputtered for a moment. "Damn you," he said and stalked away to consume another power bar.
Teyla and Carson began to converse in earnest with the natives. Ronon continued to scan the room, on guard for any threat. John was left to make small talk with another councilor whose name and position he could not remember.
"So," said the councilor, "our food is to your liking."
"It's very good," John replied. "It's sweet." He took another mouthful of the meal.
"Excellent!" the councilor looked very pleased. "Many of our local crops have quite a bitter flavor, especially to off-worlders such as yourself. However, the rains this past year have made our blossom crop more bountiful than any for at least 10 solar cycles."
"So you use this blossom in your food to sweeten the taste?" Determined to do everything possible to make this mission a success, John tried to feign interest while secretly not caring a bit about their culinary activities.
"Oh, no." The councilor shook his head. "It is not in the food. The sweetness of the blossom evaporates too quickly when cooked and these root vegetables take a considerable amount of cooking to make them digestible. We have perfected a process of baking the blossom extract into our pottery, such as the bowl from which you eat. The clay preserves the sweetness and allows it to seep slowly into the cooked food." The councilor looked extremely proud of this bit of ingenuity.
John paused with a mouthful of food. "It's -- it's in the pottery?" He suddenly had difficulty swallowing. He looked around for a place to discreetly spit out the half-chewed food in his mouth, but found none. He gulped down the morsels quickly, feeling them stick uncomfortably in his esophagus.
"Yes. A wonderful discovery by one of our botanists," the councilor beamed. "Excuse me for a minute. I will see if I can find him for you. Perhaps you would like to hear more about his use of plants for various purposes."
John nodded and forced a smile on his face. Or perhaps not he thought to himself as the councilor moved away.
John took stock of himself. No nausea, no stomach pain, no tingling... He mentally reviewed the checklist that Carson had provided a short while ago. Relieved by his lack of symptoms, John decided he was fine...for now. He debated telling Carson about this latest development. If he did that, he thought, Carson would haul his ass back to Atlantis immediately. Whether or not he had been poisoned, his team's reputation for ceremonial dinners would hit rock bottom. Not a great option. If he didn't tell Carson about the dinnerware right away and he did become ill, the focus would be on finding a cure rather than the actual screw up -- provided he wasn't already dead. And what were the odds of the blossom being deadly? John chose to wait a bit and see what happened before raising the alarm. With a flutter of anxiety, he also decided he'd better obtain a sample of the plant in case Carson needed to develop an antidote.
John forced yet another smile onto his face as the eager botanist was introduced. Barely pausing for the greeting, the scientist launched into a lengthy discussion of the valuable uses he had discovered for many of the local plants. John seized the first opening in the conversation to ask for a sample of the blossom plant, offering visits by interested Atlantean scientists in return. The botanist happily supplied a specimen.
With the specimen tucked in a pouch and placed inside one of his pockets, John figured it was time to head back. The closer they were to the Atlantis infirmary if disaster struck, the better off he'd be. The thought made his heart race a little. John took stock of himself once again. He felt perfectly fine. Fine...except...it was a little bit too warm in the room. Sweat trickled down John's back, making his shirt feel damp and sticky. After a moment's thought, John dismissed his concern. The room was packed with people. The food was being kept warm over hot coals. Of course it would be hot. Still, his teammates didn't appear to be sweating...
John spotted the Councilor of Trade near the far wall. Rounding up his team, he headed over. He took the councilor's hand, shook it warmly and smiled. He'd come too far to blow the new alliance with an ill-chosen departing mark or gesture. "It's been great meeting with you, but we must head out now."
"So soon?" asked the councilor. "Many times we will feast for a full day or more."
"We'd love to stay, really, we would, but it is our custom not to overstay our welcome, especially on a first visit." John was relieved that the councilor did not appear to detect the false sincerity in his farewell. He ignored the curious looks from his teammates.
The team headed out of the village and began the hour-long winding trail through the forest to the gate.
"Are you still feeling alright?" Carson asked worriedly.
"I'm fine." Once again, John debated telling Carson about the stupid blossom pots, but the timing was all wrong now. It seemed entirely too late for an early warning, but still too early to identify a problem. Besides, it had been a long ceremony and John was too tired to be bothered dealing with Carson's response to the secret ingredient.
"Are you sure you're okay?" pressed Rodney. "You always say you're fine even when you're not."
John felt his anxiety rise another notch. "Why are you asking? Do I look as though there's something wrong?" He had attempted a light, bantering tone but it fell flat.
"You seemed a wee bit out of sorts at the dinner," Carson commented.
"In what way?" John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He vaguely entertained the idea that the blossoms were more like a drug than a poison. Maybe he had been affected by them already. Maybe he had failed to notice subtle alterations in his own behavior. Maybe he had a slight headache. He wasn't sure.
"You're not usually so...well... Usually you..." Carson searched for a diplomatic answer but failed.
Rodney, not seeing any need for tact, barged in. "You're not usually quite so pleasant at these ceremonies, especially the long, boring ones. In fact, you've been downright rude on --."
"Oh." John breathed a sigh of relief. "I just really wanted to make sure we came through this mission with flying colors, you know."
They did know.
The team trekked in silence for a while. John could feel Carson's eyes boring into him the whole time. It was unnerving. Then again, maybe he was becoming paranoid. Damn those friggin' dinners. He silently vowed he'd never ask to go on another ceremonial mission again. Never.
John became distracted by the sweating of his palms. He was about to ask the others if they were finding it uncomfortably warm in the forest, but decided against it. Carson would probably want to stop and conduct a full medical evaluation on the spot. Instead, John resorted to frequently and furtively wiping his sweat-slicked palms on his uniform.
In contrast to his hands, John noted that his mouth was becoming rather dry. He swigged on his canteen. Feeling as though he were under a microscope, John tried to do it surreptitiously. Preoccupied with his efforts to conceal the activity, he ended up fumbling with the canteen, spilling water on his shirt. John sighed. Perhaps he could use the water to explain why his shirt was now plastered to his chest, rather than admit it was soaked with perspiration. He ignored Teyla's questioning look.
Despite drinking the water, John could still feel a lump in his throat. It was a bit hard to swallow. In fact, from the moment he'd heard about the pottery he'd had difficulty swallowing. He was sure his stomach had seized up and refused to digest any more food after that bit of news. The undigested meal seemed to be making his stomach ache a bit.
As the walk to the gate progressed, John found that he couldn't stop mentally reviewing Carson's warning symptom checklist. It played over and over like a song stuck in his head. On his tenth pass through the list, John realized his heart rate was starting to climb. His breathing was feeling a bit tight, too. Maybe it was because he'd been walking in a humid forest for over half an hour. Then again, if Rodney had also been uncomfortable, he'd have already complained vigorously. It must be just him. Without thinking, John rubbed his hand across his chest, trying to alleviate the feeling of pressure.
Carson noticed the gesture. "Are you alright, lad?"
"Would you quit bugging me?" John snapped.
Carson looked momentarily offended, but then frowned in concern.
"He doesn't look good," Rodney chimed in as he peered at John. "He looks pale and sweaty. Oh, my God. Maybe he's having a heart attack."
"Thank you, Dr. McKay." Carson pointedly emphasized the word "doctor." "I'm quite capable of conducting my own medical evaluations." He turned to John. "Colonel, I want you to sit down for a minute, so I can have a look at you."
"We've only been walking half an hour and we've only got another half hour to go. We can manage the rest of the way without a break."
Carson scowled as John strode on without heeding his request. He considered whether or not to use his authority as CMO.
"I could stun him if he doesn't stop," Ronon offered, a little too gleeful at the prospect of getting to pull his weapon on his team leader.
"No!" Carson looked horrified. "You will not be stunning any member of this team."
Shrugging, Ronon let his fingers fall away from his holster. "Too bad. Let me know if you change your mind."
Ten minutes later, John declared a short break, claiming he needed to tie his boot laces.
"They're always undone," Rodney noted. "Why start tying them now?"
"This mission is going really well so far. I'm afraid of jinxing it with unsafe laces." John avoided looking at Rodney as he delivered the lame excuse. The truth was, his stomach was really hurting now. Tying his laces gave him an excuse to hunch over in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort for a bit.
"Colonel..." Teyla began gently.
"Teyla, not you too. Let's just get on with this." John's head swam a little as he stood up. He hoped it was because he'd stood up too fast.
About five minutes from the gate, John's vision started to gray around the edges. The forest seemed to tilt and waver under his feet. The ache in his stomach turned into a vicious cramp. John staggered and fell to his knees with a groan.
"Sheppard!" Ronon dropped to one knee beside John. Grabbing one of his arms, Ronon steadied John, preventing him from falling face-first into the ground as he doubled over.
"Bloody hell!" Carson swore as he knelt down in front of John. He grabbed John's wrist to check his pulse.
Rodney backed up a few feet. "I hope this isn't contagious... He's not dying, is he, Carson?... Colonel, I'm sorry I said I'd have the last laugh if you died."
"Rodney, Dr. Beckett will take good care of the Colonel. You must try to remain calm," Teyla soothed as she hovered near John.
"John...? John...?" Carson tried to get the man's attention.
John kept his head bent forward, partly to avoid looking at Carson and partly to avoid passing out.
"Colonel!" Carson called out, his tone sharper.
John's head snapped up abruptly. He swayed a little as his vision began to gray again. Grabbing John's other arm, Carson helped Ronon ease him down to a sitting position against a tree trunk.
"Ronon, run ahead. Dial the gate," Carson directed. "Radio me when the channel to Atlantis is open. I'll need a medical team on standby."
Ronon took off swiftly as Teyla moved into his spot, crouching at the Colonel's side.
"Oh, great. That leaves me to stand guard." Rodney's voice was tremulous.
Carson turned back to John. "Colonel, I don't think you're feeling too well right now. I'm going to help you, but I need you to be honest with me for once." A tinge of exasperation had crept into the doctor's voice.
His breath coming in rapid gasps, John debated what to say now. In retrospect, his decision to wait and see what happened seemed especially foolish. He groaned and curled forward, wrapping one arm around his stomach as another cramp seized him.
"I'll take it then that your stomach hurts." Carson's voice was tight.
John nodded without lifting his head. He began to think that he might end up dead on this planet because of the flowers and his own stupidity...mostly his own stupidity.
"Ummm." John rummaged around in his pockets, trying to locate the sample.
"What are you doing?" Carson asked.
John located the specimen. Pulling it out, he offered the sample to Carson. "Here." John hoped that was enough explanation because it was becoming seriously difficult to get enough air to talk.
Carson noticed. "Colonel, you need to try to slow down your breathing."
"I'm trying," John gasped, feeling more panicked and lightheaded with each passing second.
"You know, the air here is a little thin." Rodney's voice rose in pitch.
"I do not believe we are in any immediate danger, Rodney. Perhaps you could sit down and rest," Teyla suggested.
Rodney sat down heavily.
Teyla continued to crouch beside John, rubbing his back lightly until his breathing eased enough to allow him to talk.
"Care to tell me what this is?" Carson held up the flower specimen.
"Chef's secret ingredient." John gave a wry chuckle then gasped as his chest tightened again. He focused on slow, deep breaths. "Not on your list...of foods... to be analyzed. It's baked...into the pottery."
"And you waited until now to tell me?" Carson ran one hand through his hair. "Rodney..." Carson held out the sample.
Relieved at being given something to do, Rodney scrambled over, snatched the sample and frantically began analyzing it with the new gadget.
Just then, Ronon's voice could be heard over the radio telling Carson the wormhole was now open. Carson tapped his earpiece and began issuing instructions to his medical team.
John, having confessed his secret and brought his breathing under control, felt marginally better. "I can make it to the gate."
Carson and Teyla steadied John as he stood shakily, while Rodney continued to scan and analyze the specimen. The four of them resumed the walk to the gate.
As they drew closer to the gate, John bit his lip, stifling a moan as he was hit by another wave of pain in his stomach. If Carson and Teyla hadn't had a firm grip on his arms, he would have fallen again as he doubled over.
Rodney tucked the specimen pouch into one of his pockets, having completed his scan. "I hope this pouch is properly sealed," he muttered as he continued to work on the data analysis.
Carson and Teyla continued to hang onto John, waiting until his pain abated.
"Th--thanks," John mumbled when the spasm eased up enough to let him resume walking. "I'm sorry," he added softly.
Carson sighed. "Aye, I know you are. Let's just concentrate on getting you back to the infirmary now."
As they approached the gate John held up one hand. "Wait...Need a minute...'fore heading through." He pulled free from Teyla and Carson's grasp and wandered away a few yards to rest standing against a tree.
"Are you completely daft?" asked Carson, walking towards John. "What do you think you're doing now?"
"Don't feel very good." John's voice was almost a whisper.
Carson took hold of one of John's arms again. "I'm well aware of that, son. But the sooner you get back to Atlantis, the sooner I can do something to help you." Carson paused for a moment to give further instructions to the medical team.
"And as I said in the meeting," Rodney reminded Carson, "a bucket would be a good idea."
Carson gave Rodney a withering look as he pulled gently on John's arm, trying to lead him back to the gate. "Come on. Let's go."
John pulled away again.
"I hate to remind you, Colonel, but time may be a critical factor here."
"I know...I know...." John hung his head miserably. "But just this once...I'd rather throw up on this side of the gate." Listening to himself, John thought it was the most pathetic request he'd ever made.
Carson sighed and tapped his earpiece again. "...And we'll need a bucket."
Pathetic request notwithstanding, Carson hauled John through the gate within a minute. The trip through the wormhole did nothing to alleviate John's nausea. Rodney had unfortunately been right about the need for the bucket. John knelt on the floor with the bucket as Carson steadied him.
Elizabeth looked grim. "What happened this time?" she demanded.
As the medical team rushed into place with a stretcher, John lifted his head momentarily and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Chef's secret ingredient," he quipped hoarsely.
"That answer wasn't funny on the planet and it's not funny now," Rodney groused.
Assisted by the medical team, Carson grabbed John and deposited him on the gurney. "Bloody idiot neglected to inform me about an additional ingredient in the dishes."
"Literally in the dishes," added Rodney.
"S--sorry." John mumbled. He groaned and twisted around, trying to curl up on his side.
"I'll call you as soon as we know what's going on," Carson called over his shoulder to Elizabeth as they wheeled John out of the gateroom.
The next twenty-four hours were among the worst John could remember.
Carson was conservative in the use of medication, worrying that it would interact in some way with the as-yet-unidentified chemicals from the blossom. At first, John wondered if Carson were withholding medication to punish him for being so stupid. He revised that idea when Carson sat with him through the night, bringing hot water bottles to ease the painful cramps in his stomach, wiping away the sweat on his brow with cool cloths and uttering not a word of complaint when John threw up on his shoes.
Rodney visited several times, chattering incessantly. It might have been annoying, except it distracted John from the otherwise unrelenting nausea.
Hours later, when nothing Carson could give him would control the dry heaving, Teyla held John, rubbing his back to quell the spasms wracking his body.
Ronon offered to head back to the planet and shoot the chefs.
Exhausted, John finally slept through most of the next day.
Late in the evening when John awoke, Carson was at his side again, elevating the head of the bed and offering him sips of cool water. "How are you feeling now...honestly?"
John thought for a minute. His head felt a bit fuzzy, making it difficult to find the answer to the question...or maybe he just wasn't used to answering Carson with anything other than "I'm fine."
"T--tired. Achy."
"You've had a rough time." Carson patted John's shoulder. "But you're going to be fine now."
John frowned, thinking. The events of the last day or so filtered slowly back into his awareness. "You found...an antidote?"
Carson hesitated. "No, you didn't need one."
John nodded. "That's good. Effects wore off?"
Carson finished up his brief examination of John. "You still need to rest, Colonel. We'll talk more about it later."
"Now 'd be good. I'm still awake." John's drooping eyelids suggested he wouldn't be awake for long.
Carson straightened John's blankets, preparing to settle him down for the night. "Later. Get some more sleep and then we'll talk."
"No. Now." John forced his eyes open and pushed himself up to a sitting position.
Carson sighed and pulled up a chair, knowing John wouldn't rest until his questions had been answered. He picked up John's medical chart and sat down as he glanced over the latest results. "Well then, we need to have a wee chat."
"A chat?" John was immediately wary.
"Aye." Carson paused as though planning his words carefully. "The lab results indicate the plant extract may have acted as an irritant in your stomach -- a very mild irritant. The presence of the ATA gene might have intensified the effect a wee bit. But, other than that...." Trailing off awkwardly, Carson closed John's medical file. "We're still running some tests...."
"So that's what made me sick?"
"That's part of it."
"What's the other part?" John demanded.
Carson hesitated again. "Stress and exhaustion can have a number of physical manifestations...."
John stared at Carson for a long moment. "Oh, crap." He closed his eyes and dropped back onto the pillow. John pondered Carson's statement for bit. "You're sure?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"I'm sure." Carson's reply was soft.
"Doc, I'm not...I mean, I'm supposed to...I can handle..." Sighing, John lifted one arm and flung it across his eyes. "Crap," he muttered again.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, lad."
"Yeah?" John's arm remained across his face. "I think I'd rather have contracted some sort of alien STD."
Carson struggled to find an appropriately supportive response to that.
John took a deep breath. "Ow!" He groaned and curled up on his side, his back to Carson. "If it's all in my head, why does it still hurt so much?"
"A minute ago you told me you were "achy" now you're telling me you're actually still in pain? Which is it, then?" Carson's tone became a little sharper.
"It hurts." John hated the way his answer came out sounding like a petulant child.
"Let me have a look." Carson stood up to examine John again.
John curled up tighter. "Never mind."
"John..."
"No."
"You likely have pulled or torn muscles from throwing up all day."
"At least that's not in my head," John muttered darkly.
"I never said it was all in your head. I said that stress and exhaustion can take their toll on the body. That's not the same thing. I think you know that."
"I'm tired. I want go back to sleep."
"More sleep would be good for you right now," Carson agreed.
"I want to sleep in my own room."
"Sorry." Carson's tone was placating. "You'll sleep here tonight. We'll see about letting you back to your own room in a day or two. We can talk some more about it tomorrow."
"Well, I'm done talking. I think we've about covered everything. And since there's nothing wrong with me, I don't need to stay here." John pushed himself up from the pillow and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"Colonel, you're not--."
"I'll check back in tomorrow if I have to." John placed his feet on the floor and stood up.
"Colonel!" Carson lunged across the bed and grabbed John as his legs buckled.
"Oh, crap." John's voice was as unsteady as his legs.
"My thought exactly." Carson helped maneuver John back onto the bed.
John heard Carson mutter something to one of the nurses. Moments later he felt the sharp tip of a needle pierce his skin. He started to drift away as Carson replaced the blankets he'd tossed aside. Burrowing under, John pulled one of the blankets nearly up to his eyes.
Carson spoke gently. "John, you made a poor decision to withhold information from me on our last mission and you are physically ill. The stress of the Pegasus Galaxy is taking its toll on you too, whether or not you acknowledge it. In the last ten minutes, you've underreported your symptoms to me, avoided discussing the issue, refused part of an examination and made an attempt to oppose my medical instructions. If you want to get well, you're going to need a better approach than that." Carson patted John's arm. "Give it some thought, lad."
There was a long pause. "I know." John's voice was muffled under the blanket and slurred by the drugs. "I get it...I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too, son."
"For what?" John's question was slow in coming.
"For not saying something sooner, for letting you go on that last mission...." Carson's voice was tinged with guilt.
"S'okay." John drifted off to sleep.
John could hear the sounds of his teammate's voices drifting from Carson's office. He couldn't hear their actual words though, which was a good thing as far as John was concerned. At least he'd be spared the embarrassment of hearing their reactions to his plight. Earlier that morning, Carson had tried to insist that John be the one to speak with them, but John had argued that it was only going to be one more source of stress for him. It was true in a way, but he felt bad for having used such a cheap shot.
John hoped their meeting would last a really long time. Despite convincing Carson to break the news, he didn't know what he was going to say to his team. Where the hell is the "no visitors" sign when you need one, John wondered. He knew that was pretty harsh -- too harsh really -- especially since it was his team who had held him together the night before last. But that was when everyone had thought he was really sick. Tiredly, he scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
John sighed and cracked his eyes open, only to be startled by the presence of his teammates at his bedside. Maybe he'd actually slept again. He couldn't really have been that tired, could he?
Teyla was the first to speak. "Hello, John. It is good to see you," she smiled warmly.
Trust Teyla to avoid the 'how are you feeling' question, John thought. He felt his heart clench a little with a rush of appreciation for her understanding. "Hi." He smiled back.
"So, how long are they going to let you lie around in bed?" Rodney cut straight to the point. John knew Rodney hadn't even thought to ask "how are you?" and he was relieved by that.
Teyla looked at Rodney, slightly aghast despite being used to his blunt approach.
"What? I'm just asking. Every time I come down here with a stress induced pain or illness, I get kicked back out within the hour, two hours on a good day. It's been almost two days since we got back from the mission. It's not fair."
"Rodney --." Teyla's voice held a note of warning.
"Okay. New topic. What I really wanted to say was, I've dealt with this kind of thing all my life and I'm still perfectly fine." Rodney looked smug.
John almost laughed out loud.
Ronon narrowed his eyes, studying Rodney. "Depends on what you mean by 'fine.'"
"Aw, Ronon, lay off him for a bit," John defended Rodney.
Ronon turned back to John. "We had a cure for this on Sateda," he offered.
John was curious. "What was the cure?"
"You had to ask, didn't you?" Rodney griped.
"Do you wanna hear it or not?" Ronon looked slightly menacing.
"We would love to hear about your memories of Sateda." Teyla spoke with sincerity.
Ronon was mollified enough to begin his recollection. "We'd get a small group of friends together and head out to the woods with all the Satedan ale we could carry."
"For how long?" asked Rodney.
"Until we'd drunk all the ale and sobered up again."
"Which was how long?" Rodney pressed.
"Don't know." Ronon shrugged. "No one kept track of time on a warrior's retreat. Maybe five days."
"That's it? You'd lie around sloshed for five days and be cured?" Rodney laughed skeptically.
"Never said anything 'bout lyin' around."
"What'd you do then?" John asked.
"Stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Yeah. Stuff. Like target practice."
"Wait a minute." Rodney could not contain himself. You practiced shooting while on a Satedan bender?"
"Never heard of a bender." Ronon scowled.
"So you practiced shooting --," John prompted.
Ronon shrugged again. "Pretty simple, really. If you could still shoot straight on the third day of the retreat, you could shoot straight anytime, and you were good to go again as soon as you sobered up."
John did laugh out loud this time. "I think I should have been a Satedan."
"Don't know about that." Ronon was suddenly grim. "Almost all the Satedans are dead.... Must be another way."
"Must be," John conceded quietly.
Elizabeth stopped by the next afternoon. "How are you doing, John?"
"Better, I think," John said, and meant it. "Carson's going to release me after dinner."
"That's good." Elizabeth ran her hand lightly along the bed rail. There was a long pause. "I'm not good at this bedside thing," Elizabeth said apologetically.
"I know. It's okay. I'm not so good at the patient thing."
"So I hear."
John dropped his head, looking sheepish.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean --," Elizabeth apologized.
"It's okay."
An awkward silence reigned.
"The pressures of the Pegasus Galaxy are enormous -- for everyone --," Elizabeth started.
"Elizabeth, it's okay. I get it now. I'm going to learn how to handle it."
"Are you?" Elizabeth's tone was light but her eyes were serious.
"I spoke to Dr. Heightmeyer earlier this afternoon."
"That's good." Elizabeth brightened. "It was helpful then?"
"We agreed I should golf more often."
Elizabeth's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Golf?"
"Yeah," John smiled. "That wasn't what I expected."
"Me neither. But then, it's often hard to know what to expect out here."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Me neither." Elizabeth smiled back. "I've been reviewing our situation with Dr. Heightmeyer and Dr. Beckett. I think your last mission was a wake-up call for me, too. I'm taking their advice. I'll be arranging a day of rest for all Atlantis personnel."
"Snatching victory from the jaws of defeat?" John gave a wry grin.
"Not at all." Elizabeth replied. "Despite what you may think, John, the mission was considered a success. We have new allies, we have a new trading partner and now, we'll have a day of rest on Sunday."
"Sunday sounds like the perfect day to golf." John realized he suddenly felt more rested and content than he had in a long time. "I guess the pot luck dinner mission was luckier than I thought."
Or not...
Author's Note: The prompt for this story was "boat" or "raft." "So where's the boat?" you might wonder. It's there...or rather it was there. The idea that came to mind when I thought of a boat, was Carson out fishing on the mainland in a small inlet or lake. I pictured him fishing in a small boat maybe crafted by the Athosians. I figured that was where he was headed in the episode "Sunday." With that in mind, I launched into the story. The story was developed and edited. When it was done, the boat was no longer there. But then again, Carson never did get to the boat...