Team, Week 2: In That Sleep of Death (2/4)

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PART 2

Ronon turned the corner into the hallway leading to the large gym and grinned. He’d timed the run perfectly, arriving just as his self-defense class started. Sheppard talked about running like it was cathartic, allowing him to work out the stresses of leading the military on a daily basis. For Ronon, it did the opposite, and he always timed his runs so that they ended with him breezing into the gym, sweating and pumped up, ready to throw down with any of the military men in his training classes. He’d crushed them the day before, and as he entered the room that morning, he saw their eyes glint with anticipation. They would be looking for revenge today.

He downed the rest of his water and grabbed a towel, wiping his face clean. It took a few minutes for them to get paired off, and as they did so, Ronon mentally ran through the moves he could teach him. He never planned his classes out, preferring to go with whatever seemed right at the moment.

Today, nothing seemed right, and his thoughts drifted to Sheppard. He’d tried to run with Ronon, his hand all bandaged up like a white boxing glove, but they’d gone for no more than twenty minutes before Sheppard’s face had paled and he’d staggered to a stop. He’d waved Ronon’s concern off, telling him he was on light duty anyway and he should probably listen to the doctor about not running yet after all. Once Ronon was sure Sheppard wasn’t going to pass out or drop dead, he’d continued on to the north pier.

The Marines watched him, bouncing on their toes and pounding their fists against their legs. They were anxious, ready to work out. Ronon bit his lip, his mind going blank.

"Let’s…warm up," he finally said lamely. He shook his head, trying to pull some thoughts together. Ronon had retraced his jogging path after running to the end of the pier, and he’d found no sign of Sheppard. Obviously, the man had made it back to the city without any problems. He studied his class, focusing on the task at hand. Training. Self-defense. He needed to teach them…. something. The excitement he’d felt a few minutes earlier had dissipated.

He searched for one of his better students, finding the man’s face in the crowd. "Uh…Lieutenant…?"

"Skobelov," a squat man with a thick accent spoke up, stepping to the front of the pack.

"Right, Skobelov. Warm everyone up."

Most of the men showed up to class warmed up and ready to fight, but they followed the lieutenant’s lead through a series of exercises. Ronon backed away, refilling his water canteen and drinking deeply.

Thirsty, he was just thirsty. His thoughts settled as he watched his class work through some calisthenics. They’d been practicing hand-to-hand combat against an armed opponent for the last several weeks, and Ronon finally dredged up a couple of moves they still needed to work on. He stepped back onto the mat, cutting Skobelov’s warm-up short and paired everyone off again.

Within minutes, they were all practicing the first move with relative success. It wasn’t a new one. He’d shown it to them weeks earlier and many of them had clearly been practicing it. There was a second part to it, though-an alternate ending, as Sheppard had called it-and now seemed as good a time as any to show them.

"Alright," he called out. The grunts and cries around him stopped as everyone shifted their attention back to Ronon. "That move is for when someone armed with a knife or short weapon attacks you, and you are weaponless. It’s a good way to disarm them and stop them from impaling you-"

His voice caught, suddenly dry. He swallowed, working some moisture back into his throat. "Instead of disarming them so that neither of you have a weapon, you can finish the move by taking their weapon from them and…uh…impaling them."

"Cool," someone in the group said, to an echo of agreeing nods and shouts.

"I need a partner to demonstrate."

Skobelov stepped forward, popping his knuckles. Ronon held out one of the rubber knives they trained with, and the two men squared off. They moved through the disarming technique slowly, Ronon explaining along the way. The first part was easy, familiar. Skobelov followed Ronon’s instruction well enough, but as Ronon twisted around, guiding Skobelov’s lunging knife to the side, he felt his stomach clench in sudden apprehension.

His fingers tingled, losing their strength, and Skobelov stepped past Ronon, moving forward with his own momentum. He stutter stepped then turned, looking at the knife still in his hand in surprise.

"Sorry," Ronon grunted. "Let’s do it again. Same thing."

They went through the same move, but as Skobelov thrust forward with his knife again, Ronon felt a thrill of fear run through him. He backpedaled, almost tripping, and the lieutenant once again sailed past him.

What the hell? Ronon thought. He bent forward, his stomach cramping. The fear was replaced by a sudden urge to throw up, and he swallowed desperately against it. The gym was utterly silent, the men shifting uncomfortably on their feet in a loose circle around him. He could feel their stares hammering against him, and he clenched his jaw against the overwhelming need to run out of the room.

Someone handed him a full canteen of water, and he drank it down in desperation. As he lowered it, he saw the lieutenant step forward, looking worried.

"You are unwell, sir?"

Ronon shook his head, beginning to deny it, but then stopped. It would be a good excuse for his sudden inability to demonstrate a move he should have been able to do in his sleep.

"Little dizzy," he lied, the words rolling off his tongue. "Gonna have to cut the class short."

"It is alright," Skobelov said. He took the canteen that Ronon was holding out to him. "I continue. Maybe teach special Russian moves, yes?"

"Sure," Ronon grunted. He waved goodbye to the others as he weaved through them toward the door, relief that he’d escaped his class warring with irritation at wanting to leave.

Since when had he not wanted to spar or fight? He paused outside in the hallway, and the sound of fighting and mumbled voices picked up through the door, setting his nerves on edge. Maybe he hadn’t lied-maybe he was sick. He walk quickly down the hall, wanting nothing more than to get back to the quiet peace of his room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John stared at the computer screen in front of him, pondering. The one good thing about being on light duty was that it did give him a chance to catch up on some of his paperwork, and Elizabeth was screaming for those personnel evals. They weren’t due yet, but she seemed to be under the impression that he was going to be late turning them in.

He’d show her. He would turn them in early.

He smiled, imagining the look on her face, but then frustration surged. That would require doing all of the evals and he was still staring at the first one. He glanced at his watch, frowning when he realized an hour had passed.

"Must be the drugs," he muttered. He leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was starting. Too much concentration on a small computer screen for him. He glanced at the large bay window off to the side that gave him a magnificent view of the southern towers and the ocean.

"Evals," he said, dragging his attention back to the computer. "Gotta finish these evals."

He stared at the name. Brian Kesson. See? That was the problem right there. Sergeant Kesson was a hot-headed, arrogant ashole. Insecure, for sure, but he tended to take it out on those around him. He’d been in more fights with his own people in the last six months than every other Marine combined, and one day, he was going to get someone killed. That kind of attitude and behavior did not work in Pegasus, not with the Wraith and the Genii and these new mercenary freaks out unleashing death and destruction.

His thoughts flew immediately to the mission-another attack. His hand throbbed painfully, but he was almost glad for it. It was his hand that had forced him to remain behind, and while he was never one to send people out to do a job he wasn’t willing to do himself, he’d been oddly relieved at the idea of skipping out on this one.

He shook his head, focusing back on the computer screen. His thought for the last month had been that it was time for Kesson to head back to Earth, but now… A bad mark on his six-month review would plague the guy’s career, and John knew all about black marks following you around. Could he really do that to the kid?

He went through the questions, marking off the ones he knew he could give Kesson satisfactories on. The sergeant may not be likeable, but he was good at his job. Most of the time. John marked a few other areas as neutral, then finally paused over the last few questions. He knew he’d planned to give him unsatisfactory in these sections, but he hesitated. What if he did that, and the kid gave up? Quit the military?

Or worse? What if he hated John for doing it, and then they ended up in the field together fighting the Wraith? What if John’s life depended on Kesson helping him or protecting him? Would he still do it after a bad review? Or would he leave John to die?

"Stupid," he breathed, shaking his head. "That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard."

He clicked on the unsatisfactory bubbles under the remaining questions quickly, before he could change his mind, then scowled when a box popped up, asking for his comments explaining why he’d given such low marks. The headache that had been threatening tightened its grip on his head.

"Screw it," he said, slamming the laptop closed. His relief at putting off the evals for another day was short-lived, though, when he realized he hadn’t saved his work. Which meant he would have to do Kesson’s review all over again.

He leaned forward, resting his head on folded arms across his desk. He felt worn out, but he hadn’t done much other than sit at his desk reading emails, the latest after-action reports, and most recently, the personnel evaluations. One personnel evaluation. His hand was throbbing, though. The pain had never quite let up since his failed attempt at a morning run, even after he’d taken his full dose of painkillers.

"Not one of your smartest plans, John," he said, his voice muffled under his arms.

Damn, he was tired. He pushed back and relaxed against his chair, forcing his eyes open. It was only mid-afternoon, but a nap was sounding too good. He flicked his laptop open again, determined to at least accomplish something that day. He downed another painkiller as the machine rebooted.

He couldn’t face the personnel evaluations. Elizabeth wasn’t expecting them on time anyway. He’d read all of the recent reports on Wraith cullings and the mysterious mercenary attacks. He couldn’t bring himself to look through those again. There was no new information anyway.

The weapon. He could research McKay’s Great Weapon. Wouldn’t Rodney get a kick out of that? He was always complaining about doing all of the work in the Ancient Database. It would be sweet justice to find the information that Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD, could not.

One of the scientists had build a search interface, and he began typing in anything related to the weapon, the outpost, and the planet that he could think of. The initial findings were promising-just like Rodney had said. No wonder he’d sent them off on a wild goose chase through the jungle.

Sun streamed through the corner of his window, lighting up the eastern wall as afternoon dipped into evening. John searched doggedly, keyword after keyword, for any more information on what they were looking for. When he finally sat back, two and a half hours had passed.

A headache was pulsing in his temples, and a weird aura jumped across his vision every time he looked at something. He closed his eyes with a groan, letting his head fall into his left hand. His right hand was hot and achy again, the painkillers almost completely worn off. He wanted to take another one-more for his head than his hand-but he thought it had been too soon. Carson had told him to space them out, to only take one every…

Four hours? Six? He couldn’t remember now. He grabbed at the pill bottle and tried to read the instructions printed on the side, but the lettering was too small and it blurred together before he could make sense of it.

"Screw it," he muttered. He uncapped the bottle and dry swallowed another pill.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The line for breakfast was blessedly short. Rodney sighed in relief to see that only three people were ahead of him. His hair was still wet and dripping down his neck, and he couldn’t now remember if he’d actually combed it or not.

But he’d missed breakfast the day before and he wasn’t going to miss it today. The line inched forward, the smell of waffles filling his nostrils. He breathed deeply. Waffles. That was a special treat. He picked up a tray and slid close to the person in front of him, ignoring the glare the man shot at him. The other guy pushed his tray along the counter, grabbing a stack of three waffles and plopping them on his plate. The smell tripled in intensity and Rodney’s stomach growled. Delicious syrupy waffle heaven.

He leaned forward, trying to reach around the man who was taking entirely too long picking out his syrup flavor. He ignored the man’s sigh, licking his lips in anticipation.

Then froze.

No waffles.

Son of a bitch.

The man in front of him had taken the last of the waffles. Three waffles! He’d taken all of them, knowing there were no more. He felt his temper snap, his face flushing red in anger. Did that man have any idea what kind of pressure Rodney was under? How many demands he had to deal with on an hourly basis. He needed those waffles.

Not just needed. Deserved. The least anyone around here could do was save him some goddamned waffles.

The man slid a few feet forward, giving Rodney a full view of the empty metal cafeteria bin, and then he leaned forward and took the last four pieces of bacon.

Rodney’s finger flew in the air as a rush of words hit his brain. He could feel his heart pounding. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash on the man…

But nothing came out. The words in his mind fell away, and synapses stuttered to a stop. His mind went blank. The man slid away, oblivious to Rodney behind him, and grabbed a small bowl of fruit.

Words. Where were the words? He was breathing hard-too hard. The man turned away from the line and weaved into the crowd of tables, leaving Rodney standing with his mouth hanging open and silent.

"Doctor McKay, are you alright?"

He jerked, spinning toward the young woman behind the empty waffle bin, wearing a white apron and hairnet. The chef-she was in charge. She could make more.

"Waffles," he squeaked out.

She glanced down at the empty bin in front of her, then glanced over her shoulder. "We’re all out right now, but we’re cooking more. It’ll be another few minutes before they’re done. Would you like to wait?"

I don’t want to wait. I want my waffles now. I want bacon too. And I want whoever the hell was standing in front of me banned from the mess hall.

The words were there, clearly blazoned in his mind, but all that came out was a garbled, "Uggrnnh…"

The chef frowned. "Sorry? What?"

Rodney snapped his jaw shut. He was still breathing too fast, almost to the point of hyperventilating. Someone in line behind him coughed pointedly, and he frowned, looking at the empty containers.

"We have fruit, and there are some bowls of hot oatmeal at the end of the line, if you’d prefer?"

He dropped his finger, rubbing a suddenly sweaty palm against his shirt. He did not want fruit and oatmeal. He wanted waffles and bacon and syrup. He tried to say so, but his throat constricted and a headache flared behind his eyes.

"Fine," he rasped. He shoved his tray along, grabbing the fruit and oatmeal and heading for the team’s usual table on the balcony.

He was halfway through choking his breakfast down when Teyla arrived. She dropped a tray full of steaming hot waffles, soaked in maple syrup, on the table in front of him, then sat down with a smile.

"Good morning, Rodney," she greeted brightly.

He grunted, ducking his head and mashing the little oats with the back of his spoon into miniature pancakes. Pancakes. Waffles.

"You are not having waffles this morning?"

He glanced up to see Teyla carefully cutting a golden square and dipping it generously into a cup of fruit-flavored syrup. It amused Sheppard to no end, how she mixed the two flavors and ended up with more syrup than waffle or pancake in the end. Rodney had tried it, and admittedly, Teyla was on to something there.

"Rodney?"

He tore his eyes away from her breakfast. "They ran out."

"They have cooked more now," she said. "There was plenty when I was there, and there is no one in line at the moment."

Rodney glanced at the food counter and could see the stacks of waffles even from this distance. He looked at his oatmeal, then shrugged.

"Never mind. I’ve got…this," he moaned, slapping his spoon against the nearly cold hot cereal.

"Very well."

They continued to eat in silence. Rodney gave up on the oatmeal and switched to the fruit. He flipped his laptop open next to him and began sifting through his inbox, while Teyla munched on her waffles and stared out at the ocean.

"Another mercenary attack," he said, clicking on the most recent email, marked urgent.

"Which planet?"

Rodney scanned through the body of the email. He felt his back and shoulders ripple with tension. "Um…Dabor? M44-669."

He glanced up to see the tension he felt reflected in the set of Teyla’s mouth. Her eyes flickered at the planet’s name, and a second later, she relaxed.

"I do not know that planet."

"Me neither," he said. "Looks like…here it is. Sergeant Tillman made first contact a few months ago, classified them as uninterested in any trade agreements with us until their spring harvest came in. Guess that means no spring harvest. They burned the three villages closest to the gate to the ground, as well as all of the farm fields. Bastards."

Teyla shivered, dropping her fork onto her plate. She still had one whole waffle left, but she sat back, holding a cup of tea, and sipped at it slowly as she returned to staring out at the ocean. "I wish we knew who they were, or had some means to stop them."

"I heard Lorne talking about them. He doesn’t think they stay on any one planet for long, which is going to make catching them insanely difficult." He blinked away the image his mind had supplied of the burned out villages, and the rest of his appetite dropped away. "Any plans today?" he asked, changing the subject. He clicked through four more emails, barely reading the subject line.

"I have a sparring session planned with a few of the Athosians living on the base. I would like to postpone it, but they will not be here on Atlantis for much longer and I should take advantage of the opportunity."

She sounded like she was trying really hard to talk herself into it-even Rodney managed to pick up on her reticence, and by his own admission, he wasn’t exactly the most astute when it came to observing and understanding emotions, particularly in women.

He felt his cheeks flush and he jerked his eyes back to his computer screen. Emails. He was reading emails. What was this one from Radek about?

"Any more luck on the weapon the Ancestors talked about?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, but I haven’t had much time to look. We really need to head back there, investigate a little more."

"It’s on the schedule," John announced, plopping down next to him. He had a stack of waffles on his plate, but it wasn’t nearly as obnoxious as the plate Ronon was trying to balance as he eased down in the chair next to Teyla’s.

"My God," Rodney said, looking at Ronon’s tray. There had to be at least a dozen of them.

"He cleaned out the entire bin," John said proudly. "Pissed Chuck off to no end."

"Chuck?" Rodney asked, glancing around.

John cut into his waffle and stuffed them into his mouth before answering. "Theggnnsshn."

Rodney stared, waiting for John’s garbled answer to filter through his brain into something that made sense. It did not.

"The gate technician. Chuck," John repeated. "He was behind us in line."

"Oh, right." He eyed the colonel’s bandaged hand. "Are you the reason we aren’t going back to the outpost right away?"

John’s expression soured immediately and he glared at his injured palm. "I’ll be back on duty in a couple of days." He held up his fork. "And before you ask, I’ve already requested returning to the outpost be our first mission."

Rodney blinked in surprise, glancing at Ronon and Teyla. Ronon was devouring his waffles like a man half-starved, but he glanced up and shot Rodney a wide grin. Crap. The desserts. He dropped his head a second later and returned to his food, bits of waffles flying off his tray as he ate. It was seriously like watching a cartoon. Teyla scooted away from him, avoiding the spray.

"Good," he finally answered, tearing his eyes away from Ronon eating.

John shot him a satisfied grin then turned his attention to his own breakfast. "May I?" he asked Teyla, reaching for her cup of leftover fruit syrup.

Rodney glared one last time at his now definitely cold, lumpy cereal and shoved it toward the end of the table, out of sight and smell range. He focused back on his laptop, clicking on the next email. Radek. More successful power upgrade simulations. He was pushing to move onto the actual trials now, to start converting the naquadah generators. He sighed, rubbing at his forehead.

"Is something wrong?"

He shrugged at Teyla’s question. "No, it’s just…these power upgrades are fairly complex and Radek wants to start implementing them. The simulations look good but…" He scratched his head, re-reading the results of the latest simulations. He knew he’d been pushing to move the trials to the next stage, but now he wasn’t so sure. If they rushed, they could blow up half the city.

Maybe not half, but one of the buildings at least. Ronon came up for air, and he, Teyla, and John started discussing something about sparring moves. Karate chops or leg sweeps something-or-other. He pulled up the data from the very first upgrade simulation and started running the numbers again. Visions of planets and solar systems exploding because of a miscalculation on his part danced through his mind.

They had to be sure before they started messing with the power on Atlantis. Absolutely sure.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Four days later, John was released back to active duty, despite Carson’s grumblings that his hand wasn’t healing as fast as it should be. The skin was closed, however, and John brushed off the pain Teyla knew it was still causing him. Less than 24 hours after that, the team was trudging back through the jungle, weaving along the narrow trail they’d followed a week earlier back to the outpost.

Teyla ducked under a large leaf, feeling beads of sweat soak into her shirt. She’d been happy to return to their regular schedule of missions, and knowing there weren’t any hostile natives waiting for them here was even more reassuring. They knew what to expect. They knew how far they had to walk, how hot it was, and what they’d find at the end of the trail.

A sound off the path had her snapping her attention to the thick underbrush. She stared at the dark shadows, searching for movement, but a few seconds passed and nothing happened.

"What is it?" John asked, coming up beside her.

"I heard a noise," she said, keeping her voice low and her eyes trained on the source of the sound. John leaned forward, his gaze focused on the same area.

Finally, Teyla shook her head. "There is nothing there. Just the sounds of the jungle."

"Are you sure?"

She shrugged. What else could it be? It was a jungle, and while there were no large predators in their vicinity, there had to be plenty of smaller creatures all around them. She turned back to the trail and continued walking, hearing John ushering Rodney ahead of him.

"I don’t remember walking this far before," Rodney piped up, out of breath. "Are you sure we’re heading in the right direction?"

"I’m sure," Ronon huffed up ahead of him. He sounded irritated, but he could have just been tired. As Teyla rounded a large tree in front of her, she saw Ronon standing a dozen feet ahead, looking sweaty and exhausted.

As predicted, Ronon had been charged with carrying the bulk of the power generator, and the weight of it in the bag on his back was apparent. John had alternated with him, switching the generator bag for a backpack full of additional equipment and supplies, but there had been no lightweight options for them. Hers and Rodney’s bags were weighed down with supplies as well. She normally liked taking a planet by foot, walking in amongst the trees and grass and bushes, the animals and insects, the sights and smells. It was how her people had traveled the galaxy for generations. Today was one of those rare moments when she would have vastly preferred the jumper.

She waited, expecting Rodney to argue further about their direction or the time it was taking, but he was quietly slogging through the underbrush behind her once again. "I believe we are walking slower as well, because of our heavy bags," she said, shooting a glance over her shoulder. Rodney was red-faced and sweating, breathing hard enough that spit was flying from his lips with every harsh exhale.

Behind him, John stopped and leaned against a tree, wiping his arm across his forehead. The bandage on his hand looked frayed and dirty, even though she knew Carson had rewrapped it just before they’d left. He blinked out the sweat and dirt dripping into his eyes as he pulled a canteen from his belt and took a long swig. "Break time," he called out. "Five minutes."

"Thank God," Rodney whispered, letting his bag slide to the ground and plopping down next to it.

They sat in silence, but the oppressive heat and humidity of the jungle continued to sap at their strength. Teyla refilled her canteen, then the others’, from a larger supply in her backpack, lightening her load by a couple of pounds. It was hardly noticeable when they picked up and headed back down the trail.

By the time they reached the outpost, the backpack was digging into her shoulders. She was amazed she still had it; she’d been tempted to drop it along the trail and leave it behind more than a few times in the last hour. They piled into the darkness of the entry tunnel and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"At least it’s a little cooler in here," Rodney said, his voice bouncing down the corridor. They retraced the same path they’d followed before, reaching the central control room with its two branching hallways a few minutes later.

Before long, Rodney had set up the generator, connecting it to Ancient power lines behind a couple of panels he’d had John and Ronon pry off. He flipped a switch, and the round room fluttered to life, the dark tunnels on either side of him suddenly filled with clear, almost blue light.

"Power!" he announced proudly.

"Lights," John said, smiling.

Ronon had stepped a few feet into one of the corridors, and he waved a hand in front of the first sealed door. It slid open with a soft hiss, expelling a puff of stale air.

"Doors," he added.

After some debate, they decided to set up a base camp in the original open room, which John dubbed the "Green Room." He flexed his hand, grimacing a little as he said this, and Teyla felt a pang of concern for him. He must be fine, or Carson would not have let him back on active duty, but where Ronon and Rodney-and presumably herself-were red and flushed from their hike through the jungle, John was a little more on the paler side.

But to say anything to him, especially in front of the others, would only irritate him at this point. He was prickly about what he felt was too much concern over his welfare. If he was seriously sick or ill, he would say something to her. Of this, she was positive.

They walked quickly through the center of the hall, not wanting to open any of the doors on either side until they’d had a chance to properly explore them and clear them of any potential danger. Once Rodney was situated and happily investigating the equipment in the lab, Teyla, Ronon, and John had piled back out into the hallway.

"Okay, let’s split up. Ronon, you take the rest of the rooms along this hallway, and Teyla and I will head over to the other one. Keep in contact, call if you find anything, don’t touch anything you shouldn’t. You know the drill."

Ronon grunted in reply and turned down the hall, walking away from them. John watched him for a few seconds, then turned the other direction, and Teyla joined him. He wiped still beading sweat from his forehead with the dirty bandage on his hand.

"Are you alright?"

"Huh?" John asked, flicking a glance toward her before concentrating again on the hallway. "Fine. Why?"

Teyla shrugged, not sure what she expected him to say. They walked a few more steps before another thought crossed her mind. "Have you noticed anything…different about Ronon?"

John scratched his head, pondering. "What do you mean?"

"I am not sure. He seems…subdued, perhaps? Less energetic than normal."

They were still walking, and as they crossed a slight indent in the wall on John’s side, the door slid open. He flinched, stumbling away from it and bringing up his weapon. Teyla felt her heart pound as they waited for something to come flying out at them, but the hall and room were silent. John crept forward, peering through the door. A second later, his shoulders and back relaxed and tension visibly flowed out of him.

"Empty," he said. He backed up until he was far enough away for the door to slide closed, then continued down the hall.

Teyla jogged to catch up to him, about to bring up Ronon again when John beat her to it.

"I don’t know about Ronon. Rodney seems quieter than usual, though, which is both refreshing and a little unsettling."

Now that he mentioned it, she nodded, remembering moments in the last few days where she’d expected Rodney to unleash or rant or yell and he had not.

"What about me? Do I seem different?" John asked, interrupting her thoughts.

The question sounded lighthearted enough, but when she glanced up, she saw that he was watching her, looking nervous and tentative, almost like he was afraid she would say yes. That in and of itself was odd coming from John. The answer to his question was yes, he did seem different-more skittish or anxious than normal-but the look on his face wiped out any impulse she had to tell him so.

"No, I do not think so," she said instead. The relief in his expression was palpable and she was glad she’d held back.

"Good," he said, giving her a small smile. They crossed the round room with the generator humming away and headed toward the other hallway. "If you were wondering, you don’t seem any different either."

She had been wondering, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask. She smiled in response, then pulled her focus together as they reached the first door, bracing herself for whatever they might find in this outpost.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John stood at the entrance of the outpost and stared out at the rain shattering its way through the jungle trees. It was like someone had turned a faucet on above them, the rain coming down in steady, unbroken streams. It ripped through the leaves in its way, shredding them as it pounded into the muddy ground. Already, swirls of muck pooled in the lowest points of the uneven ground. The entrance to the outpost was on higher ground by a couple of feet, and he hoped that would be high enough. The last thing they needed was to get stuck in a flooding outpost.

John heard footsteps behind him, and a moment later, Ronon stood next to him, staring out at the storm from the protection of the entrance tunnel. The rain had not lessened in its intensity. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. The sky turned another shade darker and John stepped back.

"Guess we’re not going anywhere for a few hours."

Ronon grunted in response. Water began streaming over the door of the outpost, causing a virtual waterfall over the entrance and blocking their sight of the jungle outside.

They made their way back to the Green Room, where Rodney was still busy picking away at machines scattered around him. Teyla sat nearby, her expression blank as they entered the room. John watched her eyes focus as she noticed them, and he wondered what she had been so deep in thought about.

"We’re here for a few hours at least," John announced. "Maybe the rest of the night."

Teyla nodded and leaned back in her chair. Rodney glanced up at him, looked around the room as if assuring himself he wasn’t alone, then went back to typing on his laptop. The conversation John had had earlier with Teyla came back to him. Was she right about being worried? Subdued definitely fit all of their demeanors at the moment, but they’d had a long hike through a hot jungle carrying heavy bags, and they’d spent the last two hours searching the outpost.

And Rodney was in tech heaven. That tended to shut him up fast, especially with no one around to understand even half of what he was working on.

It was probably nothing. He shrugged off the mental debate and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. He winced at the ache that flared in his palm. The broken table that he’d cut it on was still in the room, pushed up against a far wall and out of the way of any more accidents.

Rain was falling steadily into the room through the hole in the wall and ceiling on the far side. After some prodding, he got Teyla out of her chair and Rodney off the floor, and the four of them transferred their gear and most of the equipment Rodney wanted to examine into an adjoining, dry room. The "Blue Room," John dubbed, earning only vague smiles and a few grunts as he’d messed with the door control and jammed it open.

Maybe they were subdued, but John was too tired to figure it out. It was early evening by the time they finished, and the team sat down to eat their MRE dinners. It was not that they were always a talkative bunch, but they did genuinely enjoy each other’s company and they usually chatted more. He studied the others’ expressions as they ate. Rodney looked as tired as John felt, while Ronon and Teyla both looked lost in thought.

"I say we camp out here for the night," he said, finally breaking the quiet bubble that had settled around them. "Head back in the morning, after the storm."

"Assuming the storm is gone," Rodney said, a hint of his usual sarcastic self in the tone.

"Right," John agreed. "We’ve got shelter and enough supplies to wait for the rain to stop. Who wants first shift on guard duty tonight."

"Me," Rodney answered quickly.

"I will take second shift."

"Third," Ronon grunted.

John nodded. He looked at his watch and saw that it was barely past 1900 hours Atlantis time. He rubbed fresh sweat off his face, wondering if he should try to catch a few hours of shuteye, given how exhausted he felt.

"I’m going to walk around some more," Ronon announced, standing up and tossing his empty MRE packets in a corner.

"May I join you?" Teyla asked. She stood up, shoving her own trash into a bag and then collecting Ronon’s. Ronon grunted, and within moments, it was just Rodney and John.

They stared at each other for a moment and then Rodney pushed himself to his knees. "Work," he said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the Ancient equipment.

"Right," John grunted. He stuck his and Rodney’s MRE containers into their makeshift trashbag, then dug through his backpack, pulling out a thin pad and sleeping bag. The outpost was cooler, but its temperature was relative to the excessive heat and humidity of the jungle outside. It was still plenty warm inside. The sleeping bag, though, would provide a little more padding on the solid floor. They’d found plenty of rooms that looked like they used to be sleeping quarters, but pillows, blankets, and mattresses had long since degraded away. John stretched out on top of his bag, letting heavily eyelids slip shut immediately.

Onwards to Part 3